


Touch My Skin to Keep Me Whole

by Skitz_phenom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Community: merlinreversebb, Hurt Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 64,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4785752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Kingdom of Essetir has once again fallen under new rule, and Arthur travels to visit its new king, determined to make peace.  Unfortunately peace is the furthest thing from this new king’s mind.  Arthur and Merlin are forced to navigate his every attempt to make Arthur a scapegoat in starting a war between Camelot and Essetir.  The new king is treacherous though, and he may have just found the one weakness that will force Arthur’s hand.  Note: AU Post Season 4</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Merlin Reverse Big Bang".
> 
> Art by the amazing and talented [Whimsycatcher](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/pseuds/whimsycatcher) \- Go heap praise on Whimsycatcher for this amazing art :[HERE](http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/129016308333)
> 
> A/N: I cannot say enough wonderful things about Whimsycatcher. It was a joy to work with her! Thank you, Whimsy, so much for not only being insanely patient & supportive, but also so damn inspiring! Your gorgeous artwork will never fail to make my heart clench. 
> 
> Also, ridiculous amounts of thanks to my darling [Daroh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/daroh/pseuds/daroh) for being my all-around fic-related dogsbody (beta, idea-bouncer, panic-reducer, gripe-recipient and the best damn cheerleader ever). Extra special thanks and appreciation to [Marly580](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Marly580) for the up-to-the-wire betaing on the first part of this! I threw so much at these two, very last minute, so any remaining mistakes are wholly my own! Grateful thanks to my wingsis [Cuda](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuda) for steering me in the right direction (you were so right about the POV!) and giving me the confidence to make this fic what it is!
> 
> Finally, thanks so much to the Merlin Reverse Bang Mods for seemingly unending amounts of patience and understanding that sometimes life just kicks you in the teeth.
> 
> The title of this work comes from the song 'Mojo Pin' by Jeff Buckley. It both does and doesn't work - lyrically speaking - for this fic... but it certainly inspired me writing it.

 

Silence, pervasive and with an air of petulance, dominates a large, well-appointed bedchamber.

The two men who occupy it, the source of that stubborn, thin-lipped quiet, move around the space, and each other, with an air of deliberate nonchalance. Each appears to be waiting on the other to do something, anything, to relieve the silent stalemate. Neither seems to want to give ground.

It builds, slowly, from mildly annoying, to frustrating and is edging towards festering when one of them finally gives in.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks tightly, voice breaking that stilted calm like cracking ice over a frozen river, as his fingers close around familiar material in the depths of a satchel he’s unpacking. He lifts his hands to draw it out and lets the length of coarse, dusty blue fabric unfurl to the floor. “Why did you bring this?”

Arthur looks over from where he’s examining a complimentary tray of assorted fresh fruits, cheeses and generous pitchers of wine left on the table, and eyes the cloak Merlin is holding up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,”–Merlin explains with some exasperation – “this cloak, Arthur. It’s your sneaking-around-and-getting-into-trouble cloak.”

“My what?” Arthur’s eyes go rather squinty at that.

Merlin sighs. “You only ever wear this when you’re sneaking around, or pretending to be someone else.” He gives the rough homespun cloth a shake of emphasis.

“It’s a cloak, Merlin. I brought it in case I _need a cloak_.” Arthur says the latter with particular condescension.

“This cloak is trouble. A bad omen.”

That statement earns Merlin both a noisy scoff and a very over-dramatic eye roll.

“Nonsense, Merlin,” Arthur protests, though he sounds as much amused as exasperated. He crosses the room and yanks the cloak from Merlin’s hands. “This,” he says, bunching it up and then giving it a casual toss across the room vaguely in the direction of the open wardrobe, “is just another example of your paranoia about this whole visit.”

Now it’s Merlin’s turn to scoff. “It’s not paranoia, Arthur. We’re in Cenred’s Kingdom. When has that ever ended up well for us?” Far too many dark memories try to surface and he has to force them back down into the depths of his mind with some effort.

“It’s not Cenred’s or even Lot’s Kingdom anymore, Merlin; that’s why we’re here, remember?” He gestures toward the wall-hangings: banners of plummy purple emblazoned with a falcon over crossed swords embroidered in white thread. It’s the sigil of the new ruler of Essetir: King Egfrid. “And don’t forget: this time we were invited.”

Several weeks ago, a messenger had arrived in Camelot bearing the news of King Egfrid’s coronation, accompanied by an invitation to visit the newly made king and discuss a treaty.

Not long after the business with the Cup of Life rumours had trickled out of Essetir that Cenred had been betrayed by Morgause. In the years after, rule of Essetir had fallen to King Lot and though neither he nor Arthur had ever met the man, word of his cruelty spread far and wide. Merlin well remembers what Tristan had said about Lot decorating his walls with the heads of his enemies. Lot’s recent demise is still shrouded in mystery; some suggest assassination, others a battle wound gone sour and still others talk of succumbing to a growing madness.

Merlin’s not entirely sure how Egfrid ended up with the crown; as he understands it from gossip they’ve gathered during their journey, there were several of Lot’s nephews and cousins vying for it, but he can’t help but suspect that Egfrid – a nephew by marriage – was simply the most cunning and brutal of them.

He certainly doesn’t trust the motives behind his inviting the King of Camelot for a state visit, talks of peace treaties notwithstanding.

He’d tried to argue as much with Arthur before they left (raising Arthur’s ire enough that it’s still a sour topic between them) but Arthur felt very strongly that it was important for Camelot to pursue peace with all her neighbours. Despite all of Merlin’s (very well-reasoned, he thought) arguments and protests and not-so-subtle attempts at causing delay (‘losing’ all of Arthur’s formal clothes in a ‘laundry accident’), they’re here now, getting settled in a guest chamber in Egfrid’s keep.

At least they’re speaking again. Even if their discourse is still hemmed in with aggravation.

Merlin makes another dismissive noise: a rather inelegant snort. “I remember that very well, Arthur. I also remember that both the previous rulers of this land were dangerous, evil men. And it’ll be just our luck if this one turns out the same. It was a mistake to come here.”

“So you’ve been saying since before we left,” Arthur grumbles. “Not to mention during the entire journey here,” he adds pointedly. “And remarkably, despite my orders for you to _shut up_ , you’ve managed to point it out several times since we arrived.” Arthur waves his arms around again at his sumptuously appointed guest quarters. “So far, they’ve extended me nothing but the courtesy due a fellow ruler. They’ve even put you up in adjoining servant’s quarters instead of sticking you in some public room, or in the barracks with the knights.” He jabs a finger in Merlin’s direction.

“Oh!” Arthurs blurts out suddenly, and despite the incredulity in Arthur’s tone, Merlin knows he’s being facetious. “But what’s this?” Arthur saunters back over to the table and reaches out towards the tray of cheeses, fruits and wine. He hovers a hand over it, close but not touching, as if there’s some barrier preventing him from doing so. “A welcome gift of refreshments. It must be a devious plot to… oh, I don’t know, murder me through generosity?

“Maybe you could stop looking for plots and deception behind every closed door and do your job!” Arthur grabs a pear and chucks it at Merlin.

Having had more objects thrown at him over his years in Arthur’s employ than he can count, Merlin nimbly dodges the fruit and it hits the far wall with a wet splatter.

“Clean that up,” Arthur orders, and then pointedly focuses his attention on sitting down at the table to his refreshments.

Sometimes – no matter what Arthur might argue – Merlin _does_ know that discretion is the wisest course of action, and he quietly (though not without grumbling under his breath) follows Arthur’s instructions. Deep down, Merlin knows there’s something not right about all this. He’s sensed it from the moment the messenger arrived in Camelot.

And he also knows that some – probably the majority – of Arthur’s current attitude is because he _is_ anxious about this entire endeavour. He’s trusted Merlin’s instincts in the past, and may even want to now, but they’re not necessarily aligned with the best interests of the Kingdom. Peace between the kingdoms is something to strive for. Merlin can’t blame Arthur for putting Camelot first, above even his own safety, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to stop speaking his mind.

He’ll just have to keep on his guard while they’re here, and not let Arthur out of his sight.

Merlin’s just finished getting all of Arthur’s clothes arranged in the wardrobe and is turning down the sheets on the – once again large and well-appointed – bed, when there’s a polite knock at the door. Merlin looks to Arthur for instruction. He gets a nod and answers it.

A man that was introduced upon their arrival as Gerold, Egfrid’s valet (at their disposal and quite obviously disappointed to see that Arthur has brought his own personal servant along), stands outside.

“Begging your lord’s pardon, but King Egfrid wonders if he is refreshed enough after his travels to meet for a private word before tonight’s banquet.” He leans into the room, ever so slightly, and though he’s addressing the question to Merlin, he’s looking at Arthur.

“I’ll ask him,” Merlin replies pointedly, fighting the urge to glare.

Arthur waves it away with a friendly, “I heard, Merlin.” He inclines his head. “And Gerold, you may tell King Egfrid that I’d be delighted to meet him.”

Gerold’s acknowledgement – too deep to be called a nod, but not quite a bow – is almost formal. His officious and yet toadying manner puts Merlin in mind of both George, the brass-obsessed, stuffy and pompous man who’d filled in as Arthur’s manservant when Merlin had been a captive of Morgana, and of Jonas, Catrina the Troll’s fawning lackey. It’s not a pleasant combination.

“I shall escort you, then, and make your announcement to the King,” Gerold replies crisply.

Arthur lifts a finger. “I’ll be out in just one moment, Gerold.” He smiles as he says it, but Merlin catches Arthur’s cue to close the door.

Gerold sniffs somewhat haughtily, but repeats that exaggerated nod again. “Very well, my lord. I’ll just wait out here.” He backs a step away from the door and Merlin very happily closes it practically in his face.

He hurries to Arthur’s side and keeps his voice low – figuring that Gerold probably has an ear to the door. “What is it, Arthur?” Perhaps Arthur’s finally beginning to share in his suspicions.

Arthur leans in conspiratorially and when he speaks his voice is also hushed. “It’s very important, so listen carefully,”–there’s a pause–“I need you to lay out my good blue tunic, belt and the new jacket for the feast tonight.”

“What?” Merlin asks, genuinely perplexed for a moment, because none of what Arthur just said sounds like him agreeing that he might be in danger and that this trip was a bad idea.

The slap upside the head should really come as no surprise…

“ _Mer_ lin, pay attention, would you? I need you to do your job.”

Merlin smooths down the hair that Arthur’s light cuff unsettled, but isn’t cowed. “You want me to stay in _here_ while you meet with King Egfrid?”

Arthur stares at him like he’s just coughed up a live toad (it really is quite similar to his expression when they’d watched the Witchfinder do just that). “You’re my manservant, Merlin. There’s absolutely no reason for you to come with me to a private audience with Egfrid. You can stay here and finish unpacking and,” he hurries on before Merlin can protest that he’s already done with that task, “get my clothes ready for the feast. Are we clear?”

When Merlin doesn’t answer immediately Arthur’s eyes narrow and he has to repeat, “Are we clear?” through gritted teeth.

“Fine,” Merlin shoots back irritably. He steps away from Arthur, shouldering past him, and takes a deep, calming breath. When he turns back, Arthur is already heading for the door. “Look,” he says before Arthur can open the door, “just… keep your eyes open, all right?”

When Arthur looks as if he might protest or chide Merlin yet again, it’s his plaintive, “Arthur, please, just be careful,” that stays Arthur’s tongue. His face softens, lines around his narrowed eyes disappearing as they open wider and stare at him for a silent moment. Finally he gives just the barest incline of his head and then leaves the room.

Merlin pointedly ignores the sound of Gerold’s voice carrying in through the door before Arthur closes it behind him.

With nothing else to do except wait for Arthur to return, Merlin lays out Arthur’s dinner clothes on the bed as instructed and then performs a thorough search of the room. He has no idea what he’s looking for, but at least it satisfies his urge to do _something_ to keep Arthur safe.

Despite checking behind wall-hangings and under all the furnishings and even turning all the bedding inside-out, he comes up empty-handed. At least setting it all to rights again kills more time, though when he finishes there’s really nothing else to do but wait… and worry.

Reluctantly, he settles at the table and helps himself to a goblet of wine and some of the fruit and cheese. Everything really is quite good. Whatever Egfrid’s plans, they don’t involve serving their guests substandard fare.

“Maybe I _am_ being paranoid,” he mutters and plucks another grape from the bunch. Before he can pop it in his mouth, the door swings open and Arthur strides in. Merlin watches, curious, while he seems to take extra care when he shuts it and even locks it behind him. Then he walks over to the table slowly, almost reluctant, and stands before Merlin, staring down at him. His mouth is both pursed and trying to frown and deep wrinkles furrow between his brows.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, when the silence goes on an uncomfortable amount of time, especially given that odd expression.

Like the words are being forced out of him, Arthur says, “I think you may have been… right, Merlin.”

Merlin blinks. “About what?”

“About agreeing to this visit.” He swallows around what is clearly a knot in his throat. “I think Egfrid may be plotting something. In fact, I’m sure of it.” Unburdened by that – apparently awful – admission, Arthur heaves out a sigh and then slumps down into the chair next to Merlin’s. “Go ahead,” he adds with a flip of his hand, “tell me that you told me so.”

“I’m not going to do any such thing,” Merlin says with a dismissive wave of his hands. Belying that, he can’t help but add, “Except that if you _had_ listened to me, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Something that might be amusement … or even fondness (though Merlin’s probably just seeing what he wants to see) flashes across Arthur’s features. He schools it quickly into very obvious derision. His reply is a predictable, “Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin’s hands flick towards Arthur again, protesting. “You just said that I could tell you ‘I told you so’.”

“Well, you’ve done that and now you can shut up.”

For as confrontational his words are, his tone is much more resigned. Merlin can tell that Arthur is mostly going through the motions of their usual back-and-forth – telling him to shut up, glaring at him – and that he truly is troubled. Merlin settles back in his chair, forcing his restless hand to the armrests, and gives Arthur a moment to collect his thoughts before he can’t help but ask, “What happened?”

Arthur sighs. “It wasn’t so much anything specific that happened. Nothing untoward, at least; just a rather serious discussion couched in casual words. No, it was more the questions he was asking: who stood in my stead at Camelot while I was away, what combat experience did they have, how was Camelot positioned for troops. Things of that nature.” He frowns heavily as he recounts the conversation. “What troubles me most is that he must’ve known that I’d see it for what it was, and he didn’t seem at all worried how obvious he was being.”

That _is_ troubling. “We should leave here, immediately. Go back to Camelot.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Merlin knows that Arthur is going to disagree.

“No.” Arthur’s head shake is quick and firm. “To leave now would be showing the weakness he’s looking for. He’d have half his army on our heels before we were a mile from the keep.” He scrubs a hand over his face, pushing his fingers into his temples and rubbing hard enough that when his hand falls away there are smudges of pink left in their wake. “Hell, for all I know, he wouldn’t even let us meet up with Gwaine and the rest of the knights.”

“So what do we do then?” If they’re not going to leave, Merlin hopes that Arthur isn’t going to take any foolish chances.

“What we came here for. To try to talk peace.”

Merlin can’t help it when his hands fly off the armrests to spread in a rather flaily way. “He’s not going to honour those talks, Arthur.”

Arthur's whole head rolls along with his eyes. “You think I don’t know that, Merlin? Of course he’s not going to sign any treaty with Camelot. Whatever he’s plotting, I think Egfrid’s banking on my caution. I think he’s hoping I’ll try to slip out during the night so that he’ll be able to spin whatever tale he wants about why I fled, and try to cover up committing flat-out murder.”

Merlin wrinkles his nose and cants his head. He’s not following. “I don’t understand. Why would he need an excuse? If he’s going to try to assassinate you, why not just go ahead with it? Why would he need the subterfuge?”

“Ah, now that’s something _I_ picked up from _him_ while he was asking his own questions.” Arthur’s expression suddenly goes almost gleeful. He’s clearly quite pleased with himself. “I don’t think his position on the throne is as secure as he’d like us to think it is. There were some specific questions he asked about how I dealt with challenges to my claim to the throne and the like that clued me in. I get the distinct impression he muscled his way onto the throne, but that a large faction of the populace, and even his own court, are unhappy about it.

“If he were to have me murdered outright, it would mean war with Camelot. A war he cannot win. He knows this. And his people wouldn’t stand for it.” Arthur lifts a finger, pointing it toward Merlin. “However, if I were to do something that provokes attack... And honestly, all of us sneaking out of the kingdom, or leaving on some flimsy excuse, could easily be explained away as subterfuge or betrayal.”

It’s still not coming together for Merlin. He asks, “If that’s the case, then why do you think we’re in trouble? Why would he want to have you killed?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Arthur replies, though not unkindly. When Merlin shakes his head, he explains. “If he can bully me into sneaking out, or force my hand in some way, then it would mean a huge boost in his favour. Assassinating the King of Camelot and starting a war would be bad. Defeating the treacherous King of Camelot and rallying his kingdom to defend itself could only be seen favourably.”

Merlin slumps back into his chair again with a heavy sigh. This is so much more convoluted than he was expecting. He’d anticipated trouble, yes, but not such a snarl surrounding it. “Well that’s just wonderful,” he bites out. “No matter what we do, he’s going to try to find a way to force you to do whatever he needs to give him that excuse.”

Oddly, Arthur just smiles at that. “He’s not going to find that way, Merlin. I’m going to be on my best behaviour. I’m not going to let him provoke me.”

“Um, you do have a bit of a temper sometimes, Arthur,” Merlin suggests tentatively. “What if he goads you into it? Remember the unicorn? The curse and the trials?”

The smile goes a bit self-deprecating. “I think I’ve grown past the days when a man could prod me to lashing out just by saying nasty things.”

Merlin just lifts an eyebrow pointedly.

Arthur scowls. “Well, anyone except you.”

“Seriously, Arthur,” Merlin is forced to press. He knows there are a couple of topics that are guaranteed to raise Arthur’s ire.

When Arthur nods, Merlin pushes harder. “What if he talks of your father?”

Arthur lifts his chin. “I’ve made my peace with all of that. There’s nothing he could say that would cause me to react.”

Merlin swallows, but again he forces himself to say, “And what… what about Gwen?” The name is tremulous on his tongue and he braces for a reaction.

This time Arthur forces a swallow. Merlin watches the long line of his throat and can’t bring himself to look back up to meet Arthur’s eyes.

There’s a long pause, but Arthur’s voice is even when he replies, “I’ve made my peace with that as well. Gwen and I are both better off. No matter what he says, I’ll not respond. If he should cast aspersion on her honour, of course I’ll disagree, but I won’t challenge the man over it.”

Merlin’s gaze flicks up. He’s expecting fury, and is surprised by how level, how calm, Arthur looks. “That’s… good,” he manages after a moment, the words somewhat breathless.

They stare at each other in silence for several long seconds.

Arthur drops his gaze to shake his head, again giving that faintly self-mocking grin. “I don’t doubt I’m in for quite the challenge these next few days, Merlin. But we’ve weathered worse, I’m sure.” He looks up again. “Just be sure you remain on your best behaviour as well.”

Merlin nods dutifully.

“And we’ll need to get word to the Knights.” His grin goes sideward. “Especially Gwaine. They’ll be at the banquet tonight and…”

He doesn’t need to finish that statement.

“I’ll speak to Gwaine straight away and have him spread the word to the others. They’re to limit their cups, and not accept challenges,”–he grins a bit wickedly–“or offers of _any_ kind.” Arthur’s answering grin tells him they’re both remembering a recent incident with Gwaine and a visiting noble’s daughter. Though, Gwaine had probably been _more_ disgruntled over the whole scene than even her father when she’d revealed her parentage. He still isn’t that fond of nobles (Arthur notwithstanding).

“Speaking of the banquet,” Arthur says, pushing himself away from the table. “I’d best get ready.” He retrieves the tunic, jacket and belt that Merlin had laid out on the bed and carries them over to the privacy screen. There’s the sound of metal clanging softly on the floor. The buckle of Arthur’s belt. The softer slap of cloth follows. Arthur’s tunic. He continues talking, his words occasionally muffled as he changes clothes. “While we’re there, Merlin, I want you to come over to fill my cup often. Now, obviously I won’t be drinking to excess, but we don’t want Egfrid to know that. And as the night wears on, perhaps a cautioning word to me about how much I’m drinking. Nothing insouciant, though.”

Merlin chuckles. “Me, insouciant?”

Arthur’s laugh – low and genuine and echoing strangely behind the folding panels – sends a thrill of warmth through Merlin’s belly. He likes when he can make Arthur laugh, even in the midst of what is (though oddly normal to them) likely to be stress and chaos.

Not to mention that he’s glad he and Arthur seem to be back to their usual selves.

The tension over the decision to journey to Egfrid’s kingdom that’s been hanging between them for the better part of two weeks seems to have melted away under this new shared understanding of the true threat. Arthur didn’t really apologise for not listening to Merlin, but he knows Arthur’s admission of Merlin being right must’ve been a difficult one to make, not to mention letting Merlin get the chance to rub it in, and that’s better than any apology.

“Well,” Arthur says after a moment. “Just try not to do anything that’s going to get you thrown in the stocks, all right?” He steps out from behind the screen and holds his arms out, inviting Merlin’s critique.

“I’ll do my best, Arthur,” Merlin agrees and he gives Arthur a thorough once-over. Which is definitely no hardship; Arthur looks _especially_ good. The tunic is a dark, rich blue and belted at the waist with a strap of black leather that’s adorned with a silver buckle. The jacket over that is dyed black kid-skin and embellished only with simple silver closures.

Merlin had criticised the material when the royal seamstress showed Arthur samples, calling it too delicate-looking, but he was clearly mistaken. It looks sleek and the cut of it suits Arthur’s build particularly well, while the midnight shade of the shirt brings out the blue of his eyes.

He won’t feed Arthur’s ego though, at least without making him work for it. He motions with his finger – circling it in the air – for Arthur to turn around.

Arthur’s lip curls but he complies. “Well?” he asks when he finishes the rotation and is facing Merlin again.

“The dark blue was a good call.” Merlin admits. “As was the black and leather.” He puts a hand to his chin, like there’s something puzzling him, and waits.

“What is it?” Arthur looks down at himself. “Something not right?” He tugs at the bottom edge of the jacket, which pulls it taut over his broad shoulders and chest.

Merlin’s suddenly dry throat clicks as he swallows. “Um.” What was he trying to say? He reins in his drifting thoughts when Arthur clears his throat slightly menacingly. “Oh, just that I think that the only problem is those clothes are too good for the prat wearing them.” He flashes his most irreverent grin.

“Merlin,” Arthur growls. He glances around – likely looking for something that’s in reach to throw – but there’s nothing at hand. “What did I say about being insouciant?”

“Ah, now that was only at the banquet.”

As expected, Arthur rolls his eyes. “Just fetch my cloak and crown, would you?”

Merlin retrieves the cloak – the formal one that Arthur reserves for occasions like this – and helps him don it. He gets it settled evenly over his shoulders before tying off the cord around the clasps. Next he goes to the small wooden chest with the velvet lining to pick up the crown – the smaller, less formal one that he’s willing to carry outside of Camelot – and returns to stand before Arthur with it held in both hands.

“Shall I?” he asks, feeling a sudden weightiness to the moment.

He thinks that the small frown on Arthur’s face as he stares, first down at the golden circlet in Merlin’s hands and then up into Merlin’s eyes, is because he’s feeling that same significance.

Arthur nods finally, and then keeps his head angled slightly forward.

Merlin slowly lifts the crown, which also seems heavier than it should, and places it gingerly on Arthur’s head. He lets his fingers touch Arthur’s hair just a moment, feathering through the fringe when Arthur lifts his chin, before his arms fall back to his sides.

He takes a step back, and then another and looks Arthur over once again. The flashing gold of the crown and the deep crimson of the cloak draped over his shoulders add a formality to his look.  “Regal,” he decides. One side of his mouth quirks in a half-smile. “You remind me a bit of your father,” he adds softly. It’s not so much his look, just that he’s so used to Arthur in either his chain mail or a simple tunic, that the more formal attire puts him in mind of the way Uther used to dress.

Luckily, Arthur takes that in the spirit intended. “He always did dress to impress,” Arthur says with a pleased grin. “Bit of a peacock sometimes.”

Merlin likes it very much that Arthur’s willing to share little bits of himself and his memories and can do so without them being clouded by everything that came after.

Before either of them can say anything else, they’re interrupted by a knock.

“I’ll bet that’s Gerold,” Merlin mutters darkly, even as he turns to go to the door. He hears a noise behind him from Arthur that is either a laugh smothered behind a hand, or Arthur’s choking on thin air. The prat.

It _is_ Gerold.

“Good evening.” Gerold says, once again looking past Merlin as if he’s not there. “I’m here to accompany milord to the banquet. And to see to his needs during dinner.”

Before Merlin can even begin to voice his outrage, Arthur speaks over him. “Thank you, Gerold,” he says (far too kindly, in Merlin’s opinion), “but that won’t be necessary. I’ll have Merlin tend me during the feast.”

Gerold frowns, though at Merlin, not Arthur. “But, milord, King Egfrid specifically asked that I…”

Arthur again interrupts, though graciously. “And the offer of your service is very generous indeed, Gerold. But I’ve brought Merlin along with me, and it would be rather silly of me to have had him come all this way and not have him do his job. Besides,” he adds, stepping up behind Merlin and clapping him on the shoulder, “he’s done nothing to earn the evening off and I’m afraid I’d come back from the banquet to find him fast asleep if I don’t put him to work.”

Since he can’t very well argue with a king, Gerold hides his scowl – albeit poorly – and bows his head to Arthur’s decision. “Very well. If you’ll _both_ follow me, then?”

Arthur gives Merlin’s shoulder a little shove, propelling him into step behind Gerold. It’s not necessarily proper – Merlin should be a pace behind Arthur – but he’s not going to let that toadying man any closer to Arthur than necessary.  Whatever Egfrid’s planning, Merlin is absolutely sure Gerold is in on it.

There’s no other explanation as to why he’s so frustrated with Merlin being there. Whether he’s meant to just keep an eye on Arthur, or is part of more nefarious plans, Merlin doesn’t know and doesn’t care.  

He wracks his brain quickly, trying to think of the ways that Gerold could factor into Egfrid’s plans. If Merlin hadn’t been there, he’d have had unfettered access to Arthur’s guest chambers. Perhaps he was meant to plant something there? Some evidence that could be used to call Arthur’s purpose into question and give Egfrid the excuse he’s looking for to execute him.

Though, Gerold will still have that opportunity during the banquet if Merlin is serving Arthur.

He hangs back just a moment, waiting until Arthur is at his shoulder. He turns enough to catch Arthur’s eye, then inclines his head towards Gerold, who is saying something about the architecture as he leads them down the too-dark hallway (apparently Egfrid doesn’t believe in keeping the all the sconces lit). He lifts an eyebrow significantly.

It’s ridiculously pleasing when Arthur catches his meaning almost immediately. He gives a quick bob of his head and then urges Merlin ahead with a jerk of his chin.

“Gerold,” Arthur begins when there’s a pause in the other man’s stream of meaningless chatter.

“Yes, your Highness?”

“As I’ll have Merlin tending me, I was wondering if I could impose upon your generosity in a different fashion?”

Gerold pauses at that and turns back with a too-eager expression. “Of course, my lord. Anything you require would be my pleasure.”

Merlin champs his teeth down on a growl that tries to crawl up his throat.

“Wonderful,” Arthur booms out. “In that case, if you could see to the needs of my knights during the feast, I would count it a personal favour.”

It’s only through the strongest application of self-control (the kind he exercises when he desperately wants to use magic in some fashion to help Arthur but is unable to do so) that Merlin does not exult in glee at the dark expression that flashes over Gerold’s face.

“Of course, my lord,” Gerold replies stiffly. “It would be my honour.”

“Thank you, Gerold. That’s so kind of you!”

Merlin has to credit Arthur. He sounds absolutely delighted. And a bit vapid, if Merlin’s honest. They all resume walking and once they’ve gone a few more yards down a corridor and are turning a corner, he sneaks a glance back at Arthur.

Who winks at him.

Ahh. So it’s all part of the plan.

Despite all of the build-up and nervous anticipation, the banquet itself begins normally enough. Merlin gets the chance to take Gwaine and Percival aside and explain things to them, getting their word that they’ll share the information (and instructions to be on their best behaviour) with the rest of the knights. He also hints to Gwaine that the man attending them during dinner has King Efgrid’s ear, and that they’ll want to be careful of private conversation. (He may also intimate that Gerold is a smarmy git.)

During the entertainment beforehand – a minstrel troupe who look so nervous Merlin suspects their lives depend on the skill of their performance – Merlin sticks at his place behind Arthur’s chair. He fills Arthur’s cup, or at least tops off the few sips that Arthur takes when he feigns deeper draws, and each time he turns away he uses his magic to remove some of the wine from the pitcher so it’s not a full one he’s exchanging with a passing serving girl.

The feast is as extravagant as Merlin expects. Course after course of exotic foods and free-flowing wine. Egfrid is definitely proving to be the kind of king who uses displays of wealth and excess as a representation of his power.

The king himself also fits the picture Merlin had in his head of the type of man they’d be dealing with.

He’s shorter than Arthur, but broad, and has the look of an older warrior who’s since given up on his training and let himself go to fat. He’s dressed extravagantly, in a purple velvet doublet over a white silken tunic heavy with gold embroidery; the material of the doublet stretches taut over a paunchy belly. His cloak is bright green and trimmed in black fur, and it clashes terribly with the purple. Thick gold rings studded with jewels are set on almost all his fingers, and several heavy chains trailing ornate medallions and pendants hang in ropy strands around his neck.

His crown is the most ostentatious of all: thick burnished gold, ringed with double rows of square-cut sapphire, ruby and emeralds at the base, with tall, wicked-looking points – each set with a grape-sized amethyst cabochon – reaching over a finger’s length above his greying hair.  

Egfrid looks like a gaudy game bird next to Arthur’s regal hunting hawk.

He doesn’t speak much, to anyone, during either the entertainment or the feast, though he consumes nearly the amount of wine that Arthur’s pretending to, matching him nearly cup-for-cup.  At one point he signals for Gerold and the man nearly upends a pitcher in Percival’s lap in his haste to scurry to his master’s side. They speak softly, Gerold murmuring things into Egfrid’s ear that Merlin can’t make out while Egfrid merely nods and grumbles what may be actual words or just disgruntled noises.

Merlin thinks he overhears Gerold say something about, “the Pendragon King,” though he misses the context or any other surrounding words, so it really tells him nothing. But whatever their whispered conversation, Egfrid doesn’t look at all perturbed when he dismisses Gerold to return to tending the Camelot knights.

It’s after the final course and the plates are picked down to scraps and Merlin is just starting to hope that Arthur will get through this dinner unscathed, that Egfrid finally turns ponderously toward Arthur and – clearly continuing a conversation he was already in the middle of – says, “Ah, but it’s not a difficulty to fill the seat of the man before you when he did a piss- poor job of the thing. Isn’t that true, Pendragon?”

Arthur, who's been nodding politely along at the minor noble seated to his left expounding on the details of some land agreement he’d just brokered, fork tapping listlessly on the table as he twirls it around his fingers, turns to Egfrid and his face goes blank. His restless hand stills and then slides off the table entirely. Merlin glances down to see his fingers are clenched in a fist around the silver utensil.  

Arthur recovers quickly though, and he forces what Merlin would call a ‘calculatedly neutral’ expression.

“I’d imagine it would be,” Arthur agrees and then gives the barest… well, Merlin would hesitate to call it a grin. The corner of his mouth is turned up a fraction, but it’s almost closer to the way a wolf just starts to curl its lip as it begins to growl in warning. “I wouldn’t know from experience though, I’m afraid. Whatever our differences, my father was a successful king.”

“Successful?” Egfrid booms out with a hearty, vicious laugh. “The man got himself assassinated. I’d hardly call that the mark of a successful ruler.”

“If staying alive is the measure of success,” Arthur concedes, “then perhaps you’re right. But in that regard, we’re all bound to be failures sooner or later.” The lip curl grows into a grin that shows teeth.

Egfrid laughs again, but there’s menace in it. “Well, he’d have done a better job to arrange your allegiance to a strong ally before he went and got himself killed. A man your age should have a wife and heirs by now.”

He says this all in such a disapproving manner, clearly citing this as some failure on Arthur’s part, that Merlin aches to jump to Arthur’s defence. He was worried about Arthur holding his tongue, but didn’t consider how hard he’d have to clamp down on his own. And it’s not as if Egfrid is married or has children of his own; at least, not that Merlin’s seen. There’s certainly no queen by his side if one does exist.

Arthur glances at him briefly, just a quick, side-eyed gaze, and Merlin feels a moment of panic that he might have muttered that out loud. But Egfrid shows no sign of having heard anything, nor are any of the nobles surrounding both kings (all hanging onto the words of this conversation desperately, like slavering dogs waiting for the scrap bucket to be emptied) looking towards him.

At least Arthur seems to be holding his temper well enough, even if Merlin isn’t doing so well on his behalf (though Merlin is standing close enough that he can see just the barest hint of an angry pink flush touching the back of Arthur’s neck and the tips of his ears).  And he can understand why Arthur might find this response a difficult one, since Uther _did_ try to make several arrangements for Arthur’s marriage to better secure his hold on the throne and gain them alliances with neighbouring kingdoms. But Uther died before he could force Arthur into such an arrangement and Arthur was able to follow his heart. At least for a time…

Arthur takes in Egfrid’s words with another gritted smile. “Perhaps you’re right,” he allows. “I admit that I am getting no younger. But I’m sure there will be time for that yet,” he deflects neatly.

“Well,” Egfrid drawls, and from the eager glint in his eye, Merlin knows this is going to be just hateful, and primed to strike Arthur’s weak spot. “The way I hear it, anyway,” he goes on, “you’re a bit busy tumbling serving girls, so I guess I can’t blame you not wanting to be tied down yet.”

Merlin watches with a helpless sinking in his gut as Arthur goes completely still and doesn’t say anything for a moment. Even the soft, casual chatter of the guests around them goes silent. Against that stillness a movement in his lower field of vision catches Merlin’s eye. He flicks his gaze down to see that the fork in Arthur’s hand is now bent nearly in half, its tines twisted, and Arthur’s fingers are so tight around it they’re turning purple.

He has no idea if it will help, but Merlin shuffles forward a pace, just barely bumping into Arthur’s shoulder with his forearm. He wants to remind Arthur that he _can_ do this, that he’s _not_ alone, and that no matter what, he _is_ strong enough to stand up to Egfrid’s barbs.  As Merlin’s knuckles press softly into the wrinkled leather over Arthur’s elbow, Arthur’s fingers loosen and the fork drops to the floor with a soft clatter.

Arthur looks away from Egfrid, just for a moment, to look to Merlin with a sharp, “Fetch that, Merlin.”

This is apparently all the break he needs to recover his control, because when he turns back to Egfrid it’s with a laugh. One that doesn’t sound nearly as forced as it should.

“I see rumours have preceded me,” he says, shaking his head ruefully. “Well, I’m sure you know how things get exaggerated. No, I am holding off on affairs of the heart to focus on matters of state, like this treaty.” He nods towards Egfrid. “Seeking peace between the kingdoms through alliances such as this, instead of loveless arrangements between strangers, has always made more sense to me. Though I believe quite strongly that people should follow their hearts, and that is what I hope to do some day. But, until then...” he spreads his hands, letting the end of that statement trail into a silence that could be filled with any number of conclusions.

Egfrid doesn’t seem to know how to interpret that and he’s quiet a long moment. Is Arthur agreeing with him, or baiting him back? Obviously wanting to maintain the illusion that he has the upper hand, Egfrid just lets out that deep roar of a laugh again – sharp-edged and cruel – and shakes his head. “I’ve always heard you Pendragons were a queer sort. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that you take to your own… direction in this as well.”

There’s absolutely no subtlety in the way that Egfrid side-eyes Merlin standing so close to Arthur’s shoulder and raises a suggestive brow.

Surprisingly, that just makes Arthur laugh again, even more open and genuine. He ignores the implication and just says, “Well, if that’s the reputation I’ve gained so be it. As long as it’s _also_ for being fair and just, then I’m satisfied.”

Looking a little put out that Arthur isn’t rising to his bait, Egfrid raises two thick fingers and beckons one of his beleaguered servants over to refill his glass. Whether that’s the end of this conversation or not, Merlin figures they’ll find out soon enough, but in the meantime he bends down to pick up the fork. As he does so, he whispers a quiet, “Hælan” over it (it’s a spell he perfected ages ago that helps him get the worst dings and kinks out of Arthur’s armour).

When he sets the utensil back on the table next to Arthur’s hand, it’s flattened back out and perfectly useable.  Arthur’s brow goes up in question. “Swiped it off a serving tray,” he murmurs softly, for Arthur’s ears alone, “I’ll swap out the other later.” Arthur nods his acknowledgment, looking quietly pleased.

Fortunately Egfrid seems to be tired of his games, and while he does continue talking with Arthur on-and-off the rest of the evening – occasionally sneaking in little barbs and jabs that Arthur gracefully deflects – most of the discussion is actually related to the reason they’re there. Not directly, of course, because the peace talks aren’t scheduled to actually begin until the next day, but the conversation remains in the political and governing realm instead of personal.

Once a satisfactory amount of time passes, Arthur does actually finish a glass of wine, and when Merlin motions to refill it, Arthur clumsily puts his hand over the mouth of the cup. “No more,” he says. “I think I’ve had enough tonight, Merlin.” He’s definitely starting to slur.

Merlin hopes it’s affectation and not _actual_ effects of the wine.

“Sire,” he says, remembering his instructions from earlier. “May I suggest that I escort you back to your room?”

Arthur blinks up at him blearily and seems to sway a moment before giving a sloppy nod. “Egfrid,” he says overly loud, turning with exaggerated care to face the other king. “If you’ll excuse me. I think it’s time to call the evening done. It was a long journey here, and it’s been a full day since. I’m sure you understand.” He grins toothily. “Not to mention that your wine is both delicious and plentiful.”

Egfrid inclines his head, granting Arthur his approbation. He says only, “Rest well, young Pendragon. We’ve a long day waiting on the morrow.”

Arthur replies with a polite bow in return. “You as well, Egfrid.”

He lets Merlin take his arm to guide him away from the table and then leans rather heavily on him as they make their way out of the banquet hall.  Arthur tugs at him as they’re passing the long table where the knights are seated – sharing either side of the table with various members of Egfrid’s court – and Merlin halts them both.

Percival elbows Gwaine (who’s picking through the leavings on the serving trays for more to eat) and they look up to Arthur expectantly. Down the row, the remaining men also turn their attention and lift their heads to their king.

“Sire,” Percival says with an incline of his head. “Calling it a night, then?

Arthur gives a jerky nod. “That I am, Sir Percival. And I think you lads should consider doing the same. We want to be at our best on the field tomorrow.” It’s a warning couched in friendly advice, and from the bobbing heads and echoes of, “Yes, Sire,” one that’s clearly understood.

“Very well.” Arthur jerks his chin once again. “Good night, then.” He turns on a heel and Merlin is forced to scramble to move with him, shouldering a good portion of his weight as they continue their exit.

His steps are just one side of unsteady, but once they’re in a further corridor – out of both eye and earshot of the hall – Arthur takes a deep breath and straightens noticeably; all traces of his apparent inebriation are gone.

“Oh good,” Merlin says softly when Arthur’s arm shifts off him entirely. “I was worried for a moment that you _did_ drink a bit too much.”

Arthur sniffs distastefully. “Even if I had, I can hold my wine better than _that_ , Merlin.”

Merlin allows him that (neglecting to mention a few specific occasions where a drunken Arthur had tried to go wandering around the castle without his trousers). “You’re right, of course. And,” he glances around for prying ears, making sure they’re alone in the corridor and there’s no chance anyone hiding out in a nearby hall or behind a closed door might overhear (he wouldn’t put it past Egfrid), “you did well in there.” He tells this to Arthur with unashamed pride. “It was clear what he was up to, and equally clear that you didn’t let yourself rise to it. That can’t have been easy.”

“Well,” Arthur makes a noncommittal sort of humming noise. “I think that knowing it was coming helped. Had I been caught unaware by some of the things he said?” He shrugs. “I’m not sure I’d have held it together. Although,”–he turns on Merlin with narrowed eyes, as they stop outside the door to Arthur’s guest chamber–“you should’ve watched yourself a bit more, Merlin.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin frowns.

Arthur just shakes his head. “Inside,” he says.

So Merlin waits until they’re back in the room with the door shut – and bolted – and then continues to hold his tongue while he helps Arthur off with the heavy cloak and the crown. He folds the former and lays it in the wardrobe and then returns the crown to its velvet-lined box.

Arthur, meanwhile, has slumped wearily into the same chair he’d sat in earlier.

Merlin locks up the small chest and then goes to join Arthur at the table, taking his former seat as well. He can’t help from blurting out, “What did you mean? About me?”

Arthur lifts a weary brow at him. “You should’ve covered your reactions a bit better in there, Merlin. It does me no good to have my servant look like he’s going to fight my battles for me when I’m insulted.” It’s a chiding, but at least it’s said gently and with appreciation.

Still, Merlin can’t help but splutter, “But, I… didn’t… I.” He tries again. “I wasn’t.”

“You were,” Arthur assures him. “When he made those comments about,”–his voice deepens a fraction–“serving girls. You... Well, let’s just say your expression wasn’t exactly one of indifference.”

Merlin thinks back to that. He remembers feeling disgust and fury on Arthur’s behalf, but he didn’t realize he’d reacted so outwardly. “Sorry, Sire.” He replies, chin dropping, feeling chagrined that for all his fears of Arthur’s behaviour, he hadn’t schooled his own.

Arthur waves it away. “It’s all right, Merlin. It probably does no harm for Egfrid to think I have a very loyal servant.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“And it’s not as if he didn’t already make his insinuations in that area as well,” Arthur adds wearily.

There’s absolutely no way Merlin is going to comment on that. He’d rather hoped Egfrid’s implications had slipped past Arthur in the midst of his other unpleasantness.  Looking down at the table top, Merlin turns to safer conversational areas. “So, you’ll be in treaty discussions throughout the day tomorrow, is that right?”

“Yes,” Arthur confirms, and he looks equally relieved to have switched topics. “I’ve got a full day of Egfrid’s company to look forward to tomorrow. Though, I’m hoping the presence of his council will temper him somewhat.” He pauses a moment, then continues on speculatively. “He did also mention a tour of the grounds and some time on the practice field to watch his knights and mine engage in a bit of friendly sparring.” A few more moments of silence pass as Arthur clearly worries over this in light of their knowledge of Egfrid’s plans. “But I’m sure my men will be on their best behaviour,” he adds, assuredly.

Merlin nods. “I’m sure they will, Sire. They did well tonight. I kept my eye on their table. No one looked to be drinking to excess and conversations seemed tame enough. At least no one looked to get angry or too friendly.” He grins, but it falls away quickly as he thinks more on what Arthur’s just said.

A similar there-and-gone smile flashes across Arthur’s lips before he says, “I’ll just have to trust that Egfrid won’t try anything tomorrow against my men. I worry he may view them as expendable. Perhaps even hope that I’ll respond the way he wants if the exhibition dueling goes a little more roughly than planned.” He grimaces.

“Oh!” Merlin hadn’t considered that. He wonders if he’ll be allowed to accompany Arthur. Though hiding it would be difficult, he may be able to use his magic to prevent anyone getting killed. He has to ask. “Will I be allowed to accompany you, do you think? Because I could try to slip away to find Gwaine or one of the others to let them know the danger. Remind them to take extra care.”

Arthur shakes his head. “From the sounds of it, Merlin, I think I’ll be tied up in Egfrid’s company for treaty negotiation and we’ll be heading straight to the practice field after that. I get the impression it’s not a situation where I’ll be able to explain away having my servant trailing my heels.” He turns down his mouth in an awkward sort of frown. “Not at least without getting more of those funny looks.” A quick and not-so-very reassuring smile follows that. “Not to worry, though. I’m sure I can find an excuse to talk to my men beforehand.” He gives a light shrug. “Give them a bit of a pep talk, or something.”

If he’s not going to be able to stick by Arthur’s side – which troubles him greatly – Merlin’s not too sure what his own day is going to entail. “What should I be doing, then?” he asks.

“Well, much as I hate to say it, I don’t really know what to have you do.” Arthur props his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his palm. “I’ll be tied up most of the day.” He pivots his chin on his hand to look more squarely at Merlin. “You could always visit the town. See if there’s any more information you can pick up on Egfrid. I’m sure if I’m noticing the discontent in Egfrid’s court, it’s going to be a topic of gossip throughout the kingdom.”

He taps the fingers of his other hand thoughtfully on the table for a moment. “Perhaps if there’s anyone who’s in direct opposition to Egfrid, we may be able to get a word to someone if things start to go south.”

Merlin nods. “I can do that.” He’s also already thinking that maybe if he’s exploring the town and keep, perhaps he’ll find a way to observe the sparring practice between Egfrid’s men and the Camelot knights. Because that does sound like the perfect opportunity to goad Arthur into reacting; and it’s likely Egfrid’s arranged it just for that reason. Killing one of his best men, one of his friends, would definitely push Arthur past the point of reason.

Arthur raises his head back up and scrubs both hands over his face. “I think,” he begins from behind the barrier of his fingers, “that it’s time to call it a night.” He trails his hands through his hair, mussing it delightfully, then stretches both arms out on a jaw-stretching yawn. “C’mon.” He stands and waves at Merlin to rise. “Help me out of this.” He gestures to the jacket. “And then you can go.”

Following Arthur’s weary instructions, Merlin stands and quickly works open the silver clasps. “Are you sure?” he asks as he steps around Arthur’s back, tugging the sleeves down Arthur’s arms and drawing it away entirely. “I could always stay in here, you know.”

Free of the jacket’s encumbrance, Arthur turns to eye him strangely.

“In case…” Well, he really has no good suggestion what ‘in case’ could mean.

And Arthur’s eyebrow seems to indicate that he’s also curious as to where Merlin’s going with that.

“Well, I dunno. I just worry…” He shrugs somewhat helplessly – and awkwardly, considering he’s got the jacket folded over his arms.

“I’ll be fine, Merlin. I’ve got the door locked and I’m sure Egfird isn’t going to try anything more tonight. Unless he already has something planned, which I doubt, the man was well into his cups by the time we left.” He sighs. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but it’s been a very long day. Let’s both get some rest and we’ll see what comes tomorrow.”

Merlin just nods and then carries the jacket over to the wardrobe, laying it neatly on a shelf. “All right, Sire. Do you need anything else before I go?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No.” He lifts a hand vaguely towards the door that leads to Merlin’s adjoined room. “Besides, if I do, you’re just in the next room.”

“Oh, right.” He’d forgotten that he wasn’t going to have to go far. “Right. Well… just shout if you need anything, then.”

Arthur sighs, but it’s a bit of a laugh as well. “I always do. Good night, Merlin.”

“Good night, Sire,” Merlin replies, and heads to his room.

Though he doesn’t quite close the door between them all the way.

The small, closet-like space off Arthur’s sumptuous guest chamber is much less richly appointed. He’d not really inspected the room earlier when he’d set his pack inside, but there’s a bed with a feather-ticked mattress, more than one blanket, and a down-filled pillow. There’s even a small cabinet for his belongings and a small stand with an ewer and basin.

After changing into his night clothes and getting into the – rather comfortable – bed, he expects that he’ll be up for quite some time. But once the noises of Arthur getting settled go quiet and Merlin only hears the sounds of a keep and castle quieting for the night – sounds he’s used to falling asleep to – Merlin feels his eyelids grow heavy. He stops fighting it and gives into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Merlin wakes the next morning before the sun.

The pre-dawn sky is just bright enough to cast a bit of cool grey light into the room through an arrow-loop that’s been set with wavery glass (the closest to a window the space offers). He must’ve forgotten to close the slatted shutter, though he doesn’t think it was the light that woke him.

He rolls to his back, crosses his arms beneath his head and just listens for a moment.  There’s only silence from the adjoining room, so it likely wasn’t some sound from Arthur that roused him. Nor does there seem to be much in the way of noise filtering in from the castle as it readies for the day, or from the town rousing with the dawn (other than the occasional distant rooster). It was, he thinks, probably the fact that he’s in enemy territory, and fearful for Arthur, that has him on high alert.

Despite the silence from the other room – Arthur must still be asleep – that’s no reason for him to have a lie-in (at least he’s quite sure that’s what Arthur would say); Merlin gets out of bed. He pours tepid water into the basin and finds not only a soft cloth on the stand, but a cake of soap that smells a bit like one of Gaius’ tonics (slightly herbal, but not unpleasant). He washes as best he can, wondering if he might be able to convince one of the keep’s servants to draw a bath for their visiting king (Arthur had a quick splash in a river the prior morning, but he doesn’t like to go too long without a proper bath), and then dresses for the day.

Moving as soundlessly as possible, Merlin eases open the door that separates his room from Arthur’s and peers inside. Heavy curtains drape the windows, leaving only a few thin seams where light seeps through, so the room is much darker than his. He steps carefully over to the bed, needing to check on Arthur for some reason he can’t quite identify.

Arthur’s face and a portion of one arm and shoulder form a pale shape against dark bedding, and Merlin can hear soft, not-quite-snoring issuing from sleep-slackened lips.

He just watches for a moment.

Arthur always looks younger than his years when he’s asleep and the cares of running a kingdom are smoothed away. Though, judging from the way his eyes are flicking fairly wildly beneath closed lids, his eyelashes casting a faint, shivering shadow high on his cheeks, his sleep may not be as restful as it seems.

Merlin knows that just standing over Arthur’s bed, watching him in slumber, is a bit creepy.  And the moment he feels his concern give way to something… much more tender, it’s time to stop.

He debates letting Arthur sleep a bit longer, because goodness knows after the evening he had, the stress of the day before – not to mention half a day in the saddle for last leg of a two day journey – Arthur deserves and needs his rest. But Arthur’s words the night before, citing his wish for an early start, override any desires Merlin might have (not to mention, Arthur will be irritated with him if he doesn’t obey).

Merlin crosses the room to the large window nearest Arthur’s bed, and throws both of the heavy brocade panels to the sides and secures each one.  The windows in this chamber face a different direction than the narrow arrow-shot in Merlin’s room (their two rooms occupy a corner of the castle), so the light coming in isn’t as direct, but it’s enough to cause Arthur to stir on the bed.

“Merlin?” comes Arthur’s muzzy voice, accompanied by the rustling of heavy bedclothes.

“Good morning, Sire,” Merlin says as cheerily as he can manage.

“Urgh,” Arthur grumbles out (well, it’s a low, petulant grunt), and follows that with a sleep-gravelly, “What’s so good about it?”

He rolls over and Merlin watches as he nestles deeper into the thick comforter and buries his head under one of the many extra pillows.

“C’mon now, Arthur,” Merlin chides.

That gets him another throaty grunt.

“Arthur.”

“It’s too early,” Arthur complains, the words muffled by cloth and feather down.

“I’ve been thinking,” Merlin begins as he moves to the other window and draws those curtains as well (Arthur – even beneath his pillow – groaning as more light floods the room), “that perhaps you could use this time to go down and visit the barracks. That way we wouldn’t have to worry about trying to get a word to the knights later.”

Arthur drags the pillow slowly away from his face and then turns his head to glare balefully at Merlin. “You know, if that wasn’t a good idea, I’d probably throw this at you,” he mutters.

“Well,” Merlin explains, “I just thought that it’s likely Egfrid probably won’t be up with the dawn; at least I would assume that, considering how much he had to drink. Though, who knows,”–he shrugs–“maybe he’s got the constitution of a wild boar.” Merlin snorts, amused at himself. “He’s certainly got the personality to match.” He crosses the room towards the tall wardrobe. “Still, even if he’s awake, it’s not as if you’re not permitted to go for a walk. Maybe stretch your legs and get some air before breakfast.” He turns back to Arthur with a grin.

Arthur sits up, bedclothes falling to his waist, and stretches luxuriously. “All right,” he says with a groan as he twists and contorts to loosen sleep-stiffened muscles, “you’ve convinced me.”

Merlin turns hurriedly back to the cabinet to sort tunics before he can get caught up in watching Arthur’s well-muscled torso flex and bend in the soft light. He curses himself silently, for his earlier lapse. They’ve enough to worry about; Merlin doesn’t need his inappropriate affections to start clouding his judgment (it’s been known to happen a time or two, though usually Arthur just interprets those moments as Merlin being an idiot).

“Fetch my clothes,” Arthur instructs, and while Merlin continues to rifle through the wardrobe (accidentally pulling out a sleep shirt – the one Arthur forewent wearing – in his distraction) he can hear Arthur slowly get out of the bed. From the bare footsteps padding across the room followed by dripping, watery sounds, he’s seeing to his morning ablutions.

It reminds Merlin that he wants to ask after getting Arthur that bath. “Do you want me to see if I can have a bath drawn for you this evening? I know you all went splashing about in that river yesterday morning, but still, you had two days on horseback before that.”

“Are you saying that I smell, Merlin?”

Merlin turns around, hands spread innocently (though the effect is somewhat hampered by the fact that he’s got a tunic in one hand and a belt in the other). “No, of course not, Sire. I… just, I know that you, um, prefer a bath after a few days on the road.”

From the rather self-indulgent grin on Arthur’s lips, Merlin knows he’s been baited and responded exactly as Arthur expected him to. He lets his arms drop with a huff.

Arthur just shakes his head in amusement and then gives a considering nod. “If they can accommodate a bath, I’d like that.” He glances around the room. “I’m still not entirely sure what types of luxuries Egfrid indulges in. Well,”–he smirks–“aside from an abundance of overly-rich food and too-much wine. But I’ve heard that these barbarian lords are somewhat opposed to regular bathing.”

Merlin wrinkles his nose. “Well, that’s unpleasant.” He follows when Arthur beckons him over to the privacy screen and hands over the clothing he’s picked out.  “I thought the red tunic today,” he says and Arthur nods his approval. “There’s the brown vest still hanging if you want that as well.”

Arthur takes the clothes and steps behind the screen. “I’ll go without it for now,” he says, sounding disgruntled. “I can always put it on later.” There’s a weary sigh. “I hate that I have to get dressed up for things like this. With all this intrigue I’d feel more comfortable in my armour, that’s for certain.”

It’s not often in Camelot that Arthur’s daily wear differs from either a simple tunic and trousers, or his chainmail and gambeson. Merlin clucks his tongue sympathetically. Though it must not sound quite as sincere as he intends, because Arthur’s sleep trousers are tossed over the top of the screen and Merlin has to scramble to catch them.

Arthur steps out from behind the screen a few minutes later, still buckling his belt. “Why don’t you go see about breakfast, while I go for that walk down to visit the men.”

“Of course.” Merlin nods. He returns to the wardrobe, folding the trousers as he goes, and then tucks them back on a shelf. “I’ll be back shortly, then.”

Arthur’s reply is shared with the same breath as a yawn. “Good… yes.” He makes a dismissive gesture with one hand, so Merlin goes.

Finding his way towards the kitchens of a castle seems to be somewhat instinctual for Merlin. He’d learned long ago, in his early days at Camelot, that following the direction that most of the staff were heading, especially early in the morning, would inevitably lead him to the kitchens. He tags along after two maids and a young page, and is pleased when the wafting scent of fresh bread and roasting meat passes his nose.

He’s looked at strangely when he first peeks his head into the kitchens (he doesn’t want to intrude outright – he knows how Camelot’s own cook feels about that!) until he explains who he is. “I’m King Arthur’s manservant. I was wondering if I should bring him breakfast, or…” he trails off, pointing rather inanely down the hallway he just came.

There’s a kind-looking woman standing at the ovens, and from the way the activity seems to revolve around her, he assumes her to be the head cook. At his clumsy introduction, she gives him a strangely cheery smile. “Of course, young man. Of course. Want to make sure to feed your young king up proper, don’t we?”

A few of the kitchen staff giggle.

It’s an odd thing to say, but Merlin just nods. He fears, suddenly, that gossip of the confrontation between Egfrid and Arthur at the feast last night has made its way through the castle. It’ll definitely be interesting to see what kind of effect that has on how they’re treated. Seems to be positive so far, at least down here.

“It’ll be just a moment, dearie,” the cook continues, still smiling at him in a way he might describe as fondly amused… or perhaps even dotingly. “I’ll prepare a tray for you to take to your lord.”

Merlin nods again and says simply, “Thank you, that would be lovely.” He waits quietly just inside the doorway, moving to make room for passing staff that are coming and going. As he looks about, he notices that there seem to be quite a few low-voiced conversations accompanied by surreptitious glancing in his direction that are quickly followed by eyes darting away nonchalantly or glancing back towards other eyes in the room.

There’s definitely something odd circulating through the room, that’s for certain. Merlin strongly suspects that it’s not just the rumour of the exchange between kings, but more the one accusation that Arthur _didn’t_ deflect that’s causing those mischievous smiles and knowing smirks. 

Is it warm in the kitchens? It must be that he’s standing too close to the oven.

He’s about to broach the subject with the nearest scullery maid (up to her arms in a vast pot, but still shooting him sidelong glances now and again) when he hears an officious throat-clearing noise coming from the corridor behind him.

“Eh hem.”

Merlin’s shoulders go immediately tense because he recognizes that phlegmy sound. Drawing a deep, steadying breath through his nose, he turns, wearing a plastered-on smile. “Good morning, Gerold.”

Gerold inclines his head but doesn’t seem keen on saying anything more.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Merlin begins, as ingenuously as he can manage, “but my lord woke early this morning and asked me to come and fetch him breakfast. I hope I’m not intruding upon anyone’s duties?”

Obviously Gerold can’t imply that he is, since it was Arthur who ordered Merlin to do this, so he just sniffs and says, “No, of course not.” He immediately leers. “Your _personal_ dedication to your king is quite… admirable.”

The slick, sly way he says it makes Merlin’s hackles rise. But, since Arthur was strong enough not to fall prey to such petty bait, Merlin won’t let himself step into that same trap. He just smiles and nods and says, “Absolutely. It is the highest honour to serve a king, is it not? I relish my duties and the chance to serve.”

The expression that crosses Gerold’s face is one that Merlin just knows is going to come back to haunt him: if looks could kill, Merlin would be a smoldering corpse on the floor.  Merlin feels a bit petty relishing how much visible effort Gerold has to make in order to gain control (only a bit, though). Finally he spits out a short, “Of course. If you’ll excuse me, I have my own lord to tend to.”

Merlin steps further aside, gesturing with an arm for Gerold to pass. “Of course,” he parrots in that same snide tone.

Gerold repeats that disdainful sniff as he passes by, eying him up and down coldly, frowning the whole while.

When Merlin turns back to the room, he catches more unspoken communication between the kitchen staff, but this time it’s accompanied by frowns and furtive whispering, and not a small number of scowls and glares. All of which seem to be directed at Gerold.

So perhaps Gerold isn’t very well-liked in the keep. But is it a reflection on Gerold himself, or his position as Egfrid’s personal valet? Whatever the answer, it’s definitely interesting.

Unfortunately, with Gerold in the room (noisily haranguing a maid by the looks of it), Merlin can’t ask his questions of the staff.  And once Gerold stalks past him to exit the room (sans a breakfast tray, which makes Merlin wonder at his real purpose), the head cook is close on his heels carrying a laden tray (wearing that smile again) firmly instructing him, “You take this back to your young lord right away, dearie. There’s that on the tray best served hot.” So Merlin has no excuse to linger.  

He thanks her profusely and then hurries out of the kitchen.

Arthur’s already back by the time Merlin returns to his room with the tray, and it’s nice to see that the cook piled an over-abundance of food onto it. There’ll be enough for him for breakfast as well. He wonders if that was done on purpose. She certainly seemed keen to see Arthur’s needs met, and perhaps a little over-eager as well. He’s definitely going to have to get back to the kitchens to gossip.

“There you are,” Arthur says, once Merlin’s carried the meal into the room and kicked the door closed behind him.

Merlin places the tray on the table and sets out on of the plates. “Did you get to the barracks?” Merlin asks, pouring a glass from a chilled, brimming pitcher that’s already dripping with condensation.

Arthur nods. “Yes, I got there just in time, too. Egfrid may not be an early riser, but the Knight Captain certainly is. They were already roused and readying for early morning training. Gwaine and Percival and the others were up as well, ready to join them.”

He sits down at the table once Merlin steps aside for him. “I cautioned them to be on their guard, and not to let anyone press them into any kind of contests or challenges that look like they might escalate into anything beyond a little friendly competition. Most of all, I told them that if they do find themselves fighting in serious combat, to do their best to win, but to…try not to do too much damage.”

“Right,” Merlin says with a sharp nod. “I suppose that would be equally as damning in Egfrid’s eyes, if we were to kill one of his.”

“Exactly,” Arthur agrees.

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur waves a hand at the other chair and then slides over the second plate that’s still on the tray. “Looks like they’ve supplied you with breakfast as well. Did you happen to talk with any of the people in the kitchen?”

He’s not sure if this was prepared by the same cook responsible for the feast last night, but it certainly looks and tastes just as delicious. (He’d only got scraps as they passed by on ravaged trays, but the bits he’d snagged were tasty). Around a mouthful of some kind of exquisitely tender game bird Merlin replies, “Not nearly as much as I’d have liked.”

Arthur looks over at him curiously.

“Gerold showed up,” he explains.

“Ah.” Arthur frowns. “Why doesn’t that surprise me? I suspect that man is going to be glued to either of us today.” He stabs a fork into a crisp-skinned sausage. “Probably you.” He inclines his head toward Merlin. “Because I’ll be under Egfrid’s watchful eye at all times. Try to keep an eye out for him.”

Merlin swallows a mouthful of a delicately seasoned poached fish. “I will.”

“Maybe we should try and recruit Egfrid’s cook,” Merlin suggests after they’re both done eating. He sits back in his chair, hands falling to his noticeably full belly.

Arthur, who actually cleaned his plate for once and is likewise sitting back rather sluggishly, shoots him a narrow-browed glare, but can’t seem to help following that up with a soft laugh. “You’d better be on your best behavior from here on out Merlin, or I’m sharing that little bit of disloyalty with Cook.”

Merlin wrinkles his nose. “You wouldn’t.”

“How d’you know?” Arthur’s tone is light, teasing. “I might you know.”

Merlin holds up a finger. “Ah, because if you do, then she’ll bar me from the kitchens and I won’t be able to sneak in there to steal you those tarts.”

Arthur’s mouth flattens to a thin line. “Hrm, perhaps I spoke too hastily.”

“Although, you know –” Merlin begins, but is cut off by a knock at the door. Damn...

Unfortunately that knock seems to remind Arthur of where they are and what they’re in the midst of, because all the amusement falls away and he pushes away from the table.

“I’ll get that.” Merlin hurries to rise before Arthur and steps around him to get to the door.

There’s a moment where Merlin dreads opening it, because he just _knows_ who’s on the other side. And he’s especially bitter at Gerold’s timing because he interrupted…

Well, Merlin’s not quite sure what he interrupted, except that there’d been warmth in Arthur’s eyes, a strange fluttering in his own pulse and anticipation zinging through all his veins.

He yanks the door open with perhaps a bit more force than necessary and has a sharp word waiting on his tongue. “Yes, Gero –“ he stops himself, because it’s not Gerold waiting outside the door, it’s Gwaine and Percival.

“Came to see Arthur,” Gwaine says affably, though there’s an undercurrent of something dark to the tone. “Need to talk to him about Percival’s armour.”

“Come in,” Merlin invites, stepping aside to let them into the room. He notices right away that Percival shuts the door behind them quite deliberately.

“Gwaine? Percival? What’re you doing here?” Arthur moves from the table toward the door, but Gwaine holds up a finger to his lips and waves him further into the room.

Gwaine crosses to sit down on the bed. “Huh, nice digs you’ve got here.” He bounces a couple of times on the thick mattress. “Much nicer than the flea-infested cots they’ve spared for us.”

Percival rolls his eyes at Gwaine, but he also moves away from the door. “Merlin,” he whispers, before he goes. “Keep an ear to the door, will you? See if you can catch anyone listening in.”

Merlin nods; although he’d rather be close enough to hear the conversation, he understands the necessity of Percival’s suggestion. He leans one ear against the door but keeps his attention on the others.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, and his voice is low enough, but Merlin’s able to catch the words.

Gwaine answers him, all hints of frivolity gone from his tone. “Seems this Egfrid has the word out to a few of his pet guards that anyone who can bring him the head of a Camelot knight is due for quite a hefty sum of gold.”

Arthur swears.

Percival follows that with, “Turns out that not all those who’ve been here since Lot’s rule are too happy with Egfrid. He’s got a special bunch that came with him during the whole bloody mess over the succession, but the others are the old guard. They’re none too happy with how that whole business went down.”

“That’s how we found out,” Gwaine adds. “A couple of those that are least fond of Egfrid overheard the others talking about the bounty he’s put on our heads. They warned us.”

Arthur drops down onto the bed next to Gwaine and runs a hand through his hair. “So what am I to do? I can’t have you withdraw from the combat.” He lifts his head and looks from Gwaine to Percival.

They both shake their heads. “Couldn’t make us if you tried.” Gwaine says with a much more genuine sounding laugh.

“Then how do we proceed without either killing one of Egfrid’s men, or seeing one of our own lose his own head?”

Gwaine and Percival exchange a look. It’s the kind of look that suggests nothing but mischief. Arthur groans.

“We’re going to barter with the older knights. The ones who feel no loyalty to Egfrid,” Percival tells him.

Arthur’s mouth droops at the corners. “I don’t follow. Barter for what?”

“Match-ups,” Percival explains. “They’ve agreed that they’ll help us keep the matches even, and make sure that certain of us are pitted against the ones who’re looking to kill us.” He smiles, like it’s a brilliant suggestion.

Apparently Arthur doesn’t think so, because he continues to frown. “So, you’re still going to be facing Egfrid’s men who are going to try to kill you.”

“C’mon, Arthur.” Gwaine blows out a noisy breath. “The best of them’s not going to be able to take me.” His grin is ridiculously cocky. He elbows Percival. “Or the big man here. And we’ve got Elyan. Not to mention Osred and Dwennon, who are two of your best, after us and Leon, of course. Though Leon’s not here,” he adds as an afterthought.

Percival puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and shakes him lightly. “It’s really not as bad as you think. The men we’ve talked to are more than willing to help us out. They’d like to see Egfrid’s dogs brought down low.”

There’s a moment of silence before Arthur exhales heavily, blowing air up to unsettle his fringe. “Well, I suppose short of withdrawing from an exhibition bout, there’s no other way to handle it.” He cocks his head to eye Gwaine curiously. “So why did you come here to warn me if you’ve got it all worked out.”

Gwaine starts to whistle innocently, eyes flickering around everywhere but at Arthur. Percival, at least, has the good grace to look sheepish. “Well, it’s about the barters, Sire. A few of the men are in it for some extra coin, which Gwaine and I can pay back once we’re home, if you can lend it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gwaine interjects.

Arthur waves that away. “No, he’s right. I wouldn’t ask you to cover that from your own accounts.” He nods. “I can help out with that.” He looks from Percival to Gwaine again. “But, there’s something else, isn’t there?”

Percival nods. “Err, just one thing. A couple of these men absolutely hate working for Egfrid, but they’ve no desire to turn mercenary. Um, they’d be looking for employment in Camelot.”

Merlin doesn’t see the trouble with that – they can always use skilled guards in Camelot’s army – until Arthur says, “Didn’t some of these men serve King Lot?”

Which explains his hesitation; Lot’s reputation isn’t one that suggests that any men who willingly served him would have any kind of noble disposition.

Percival shrugs. “A few did, yes. But from what we’ve been told, Lot was quite a bit like this Egfrid. He had a cadre of personal bodyguards who carried out his punishment and did his dirty work. The rest of his men were just serving the kingdom they’d been born in, or the army they’d been conscripted to.”

“What happened to Lot’s personal guard?”

“Same as what happened to Lot,” Gwaine tells him with a wry little chortle. “Which is strange because no one’s quite sure how they all managed to catch the same sort of madness. Word is they all looked to have walked off the battlements.”

Arthur pushes up from the bed and crosses to the cabinet where Merlin packed away his crown and other personal sundries. He pulls out a pouch and tosses it to Percival. Gwaine makes a grab for it, but Arthur arcs the throw far enough above his head that only someone of Percival’s height could catch it, and he purses his lips in a pout. Arthur ignores him. “That should cover whatever coin you’ll need. As for this other business.” He runs his hand through his already tousled hair and scrubs at the base of his neck a moment. “I’ll trust your judgment,” he tells both men. “If you feel they’d be a good fit in Camelot, then they’re welcome to either leave with us, or come to Camelot at a later time.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” Percival says and then grabs Gwaine by the forearm, dragging him up from where he’s fallen back to sprawl in the depths of the bedcovers.

Focused on the conversation, it takes Merlin a moment to realize that the soft footsteps he hears aren’t coming from in the room, but are closing from the hallway on the other side of the door. He waves his hand frantically and hisses out a low, “Arthur!”

“Thank you for your lenience, Sire,” Gwaine suddenly says, voice carrying across the room quite loudly. The footsteps pause just outside the door, and Merlin thinks he hears a rustle of fabric against wood. He points at the door and the others nod.

“Aye,” Percival agrees, echoing Gwaine’s volume. “We know you frown upon gambling, and I assure you, we’ll pay back what we’ve come to borrow.”

Arthur catches on quick. “You certainly will,” he says firmly. “I’ll be docking half as much again from your pay as well, that much is sure. And if I catch wind of either of you behaving like common ruffians again, there’ll be more than some gold that you’ll owe me.”

“Yes, Sire,” Percival and Gwaine say at the same time.

“Now, if that is all, I’ve got treaty talks to prepare for, and I believe the two of you are due on the practice field.”

If Merlin didn’t know they were mocking this discussion, he’d find Arthur’s tone just now quite menacing.

Again, both Gwaine and Percival’s responding, “Yes, Sire!” ring out almost in sync.

They move noisily towards the door. Merlin fights the urge to roll his eyes because they’re practically stamping their feet on the stone floor, but he’s sure that he hears the footsteps again, this time stepping away from the door.

Merlin opens it for them, and is wholly unsurprised to see Gerold lurking outside.

To give him credit, he does a very good job of feigning surprise when Gwaine and Percival pass by him into the hall. He watches them go a moment and then turns back to Merlin. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Your Highness.”

Merlin so badly wants to say, 'You don’t have to call me highness’, but he refrains. He knows Gerold is just talking past him, since Arthur’s only standing a few feet behind him.

“It’s no disturbance, Gerold,” Arthur reassures him. “My men were just leaving anyway. What can I do for you?”

Gerold looks a little bit too pleased that Arthur’s bypassing Merlin to address him directly, despite the fact that Merlin doesn’t step out of the way of the door and they’re essentially speaking over his shoulder. “I came to see if you were ready to join King Egfrid and the council, Highness. They’ll be adjourning shortly.”

“Yes, of course. I only need a few more minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

Gerold nods. “Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

Merlin knows he’s not imagining the quick and disgusted little leer Gerold flicks in his direction.

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur replies, “Actually, Gerold there is!”

Gerold brightens at that, visibly standing taller and squaring his shoulders. Merlin turns to look over his shoulder at Arthur with a slight frown. What on earth could he want from the man?

“I was hoping you might take this empty breakfast tray down to the kitchens,” Arthur says it so pleasantly and grateful sounding that if it weren’t for the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth, Merlin would think he was asking out of a genuine desire for help.

Something ridiculously warm and so much larger than fondness blossoms in his chest and he finds he can barely swallow around it. He does his very best to keep any of it from showing on his face… though he imagines it must be shining out of his eyes from the way Gerold’s lip curls when he glances over.

They both watch as Arthur walks over to the table and sets both empty plates on the tray, followed by both empty cups, making it extremely clear that he and Merlin shared breakfast at that table.

Merlin steps aside when he carries it over and hands it off expectantly to Gerold, who can’t exactly refuse.

“Of course, Your Highness,” He grits out, just barely maintaining the thinnest veneer over the disdain in his voice.

“Thank you, Gerold,” Arthur says heartily, clapping him – overly hard – on the shoulder. “If you’ll let Egfrid and the Elder’s council know that I’ll join them in just a few minutes, I’d appreciate that.”

When Arthur turns his back on the man and walks back into the room, Gerold doesn’t seem to quite know what to do. He certainly looks foolish standing there holding an empty tray and glaring daggers into the room.

“C’mon, Merlin.” Arthur hooks a hand around Merlin’s upper arm and starts to tug him away from the door. “I need you to find my other belt. The one I wore yesterday. I seem to have mislaid it somehow.” Merlin looks straight into Gerold’s hate-filled gaze for just one moment, quirks his lips into the barest smirk, and then swings the door shut.  Perhaps with a little more force than necessary.

He says, very loudly – so Gerold is sure to hear it even through the closed door, “Of course, Arthur. I think I know where that ended up.”

There’s a clatter outside of the door. Possibly the sound a wooden serving tray and stoneware would make when crashing to the stone flooring.

Arthur waits a few moments – giving enough time for Gerold to gather things up and be on his way – and then shakes his head ruefully. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.” He says it softly, but with clear amusement in his tone as well.

Merlin knows there’s a ridiculously delighted grin on his face but he tries to temper it as he whispers, “Baiting him like that probably wasn’t the best idea,” he agrees. “But it was definitely worth it for the look on his face.”

Arthur chuckles but rubs a hand over his mouth and chin, muffling the sound. “He’s going to be nothing but trouble, you know. You’d best be on your guard today, Merlin.”

“I will, Arthur, don’t worry.” He gestures to Arthur. “Though you should be careful as well. I know Gwaine and Percival think they have it all in hand, but I certainly wish I could go with you to the practice field today.”

Arthur eyes him strangely but just says, “I’ll be there to keep an eye on the men, don’t worry.”

That’s precisely what Merlin _is_ worried about. But he doesn’t voice that, and instead asks, “Do you think this scheme of theirs will work?”

Arthur shrugs. “I certainly hope so. I know that if my knights are made aware that some of their opponents are out for blood, they’ll do me proud. No, I’m actually more worried about some of them defending themselves… a bit too exuberantly. Or some of Egfrid’s men being willing to take extremely stupid chances.” He grimaces.

“I understand.” Merlin nods. It would be just their luck if one of Egfrid’s men is willing to fall on his sword. “I’m sure it will all be fine,” he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.

If his expression is anything like the one on Arthur’s face, it isn’t very convincing.

Remembering then that Arthur’s got to get to the treaty negotiation, he asks. “ _Do_ you need anything before you go?”

Arthur scans the room slowly and then shakes his head. “Uh, no –“ he interrupts himself with a snap of his fingers. “Wait, yes. Sorry, I forgot about my cloak and crown. Official business of the court and all that.” He curls a lip up in disgust, though it’s in that endearing way that puts a wrinkle at the side of his nose. “An entire day wearing that thing. At least it’s not the official one back at Camelot.” He stretches his head to either side, drawing the tendons in his throat taut obviously remembering the feeling of wearing it.

Merlin knows that his formal crown gives him a headache and a sore neck after only a short time. The lighter circlet he travels with probably gets irritating after a time, but doesn’t weigh on him nearly as much.

He retrieves the cloak and helps Arthur fasten it in place, but when he carries the crown over he just holds it out for Arthur to take. He’ll leave it off until the last minute, Merlin is sure.

“You’ll be heading out to the city then?” he asks, rolling the golden circlet in his hands.

“Yeah, I think I’ll wander around, perhaps head down to the market place and see if I can learn anything of interest.” He can’t help adding, “Maybe visit the local tavern.”

Arthur glowers. “I’d better not hear that you’ve spent your whole day in the tavern, _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin spreads his hands innocently. “Me? Of course not. Though, you must admit they’re a good place to pick up gossip.”

Begrudgingly, Arthur nods. “All right. Just stay out of trouble, remember?” He steps forward and claps a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, squeezing for a moment and giving it a quick shake.

Merlin reaches up with that same arm and circles his fingers around Arthur’s forearm. “You as well, Arthur.” He clasps tight with his fingers for just a moment and then lets his hand fall away. “I suppose we should be off.”

They leave the room together, but separate once they reach the point where the long corridor of the guest wing branches off to the right. That way leads to the central part of the castle where Egfrid’s council chamber is, while the other direction will take Merlin back to the main entrance. They both pause a moment.

“I’ll see you later then,” Arthur says, though there’s a reluctance in the words that tells Merlin he’s no happier than Merlin is about having to split up. When they’re together, at least they can keep an eye on each other.

Merlin inclines his head, trying to project reassurance. “Of course, Sire.” He watches after Arthur for a moment as he turns and strides down the corridor, smiling softly when Arthur places the crown somewhat cockeyed on his head. Another turn takes him out of Merlin’s sight just a few moments later, so he continues on his way.

The main doors of the castle are closed and under guard, but no one questions when he leaves. He sees the occasional maid or servant scurrying through the grounds of the keep, but he decides he’ll try approaching one of them later. Perhaps when he goes for Arthur’s evening meal (if Arthur’s not required to dine with Egfrid again) he’ll see if he can get one of the ladies in the kitchen to speak to him.

Castle kitchens tend to be a central source of gossip and when the staff haven’t got a meal underway (poking his nose in and being a pest when they’re in the midst of it isn’t going to make him any friends), they may be more willing to chat. The head cook certainly seemed like she might open up to him.

For something to do, Merlin makes his way to the stables. It’s still a bit too early to visit the taverns – at least to try to catch the serious drinker deep in their cups – so he checks on his and Arthur’s horses.

The stableman is a nice enough fellow. He compliments the quality of their mounts, is pleased to see Merlin checking on them – he gives over a pair of apples for Merlin to share out between the two bays – and is eager to show off a new mare he just acquired from some stock in Mercia.  They chat about horses for a few minutes (he’s got some enthusiastic plans for a breeding program and would love to acquire stock from Camelot), but he’s not really the loquacious sort on any topics other than the beasts in his care. Merlin thanks him for his time and moves on.

He did get the recommendation of a good tavern to visit though, one that sees a lot of traffic from the keep. The stablemen spoke highly of their stew, so he plans to make sure to time his visit there around lunch.

Outside of the walls of the keep the city is divided by a low wall that surrounds an area about half the size of Camelot’s lower town, while the rest of the city sprawls over twice as large beyond it. There’s a marked difference in the prosperity (noticeable in the buildings, the condition of the streets and even the look of the people) between the properties encompassed by the keep wall, and those outside its boundaries.

It doesn’t look as if Egfrid’s very generous with the populace he supports, outside of those who can afford to live within the walls either through virtue of their title or profession.

It stands to reason that those who are most disgruntled with Egfrid might be easier to track down in that area, so Merlin passes through a small gated passage (guarded as well) to explore the outer city. Many of the streets are little more that dirt paths overgrown with weeds, and every third or fourth building looks badly in need of repair.

When Arthur and his company had ridden in the day before they’d come through a west-facing gate, led by Egfrid’s mounted escort down a wide, paved street. Much of the squalor that Merlin’s seeing as he makes his way through the close, narrow streets was hidden from view by stands of trees and gardens.

Merlin suspects Egfrid brought them in that way on purpose. The real view of his kingdom isn’t nearly as impressive. And while it’s possible Egfrid really is as prosperous as he wanted Arthur to think, it’s certainly something he doesn’t share beyond the walls.

Unfortunately all that Merlin discovers during his meandering is that Egfrid’s yoke may be too heavy for him to get any useful information. The people are quiet, suspicious and untrusting of strangers. They’re busy folk living in the shadow of a greedy ruler, with no time for strange servants asking peculiar questions. Though he does hear quite a bit of low-voice grumbling about taxes; it seems that Egfrid’s supporting his lavish lifestyle on the backs of the people with little thought to their prosperity or survival.

Those he does try to strike up conversations with – a beggar, two farmhands and a woman soothing a crying child – are extremely unwilling to even speak their new king’s name. Though the woman does talk to him long enough to hand the infant over for him to bounce in his arms a few moments until it quiets.

He finishes his rough circuit of the outer city by the time the sun is just overhead, sticking somewhat close to the wall since it seems to be a bit safer. It would be quite distressing if he were to avoid getting into trouble related to Egfrid’s plot against Arthur, only to get himself robbed or roughed up – or worse – all on his own.

He passes back through another of the small gateways in the wall, and though the guards there eye him warily, they make no move to stop him. He decides on the tavern as his next destination, and one of the taciturn guards is at least vocal enough to begrudgingly supply him with directions.

“Straight down this street, past maybe four that cross, then turn left by the fountain.” He moves a hand vaguely in what Merlin assumes is the correct direction. “ _The Crossed Elms_ is just a ways down that street.”

“Thanks,” Merlin tells him, smiling sincerely. The guard nods but continues to look about as thrilled as Arthur facing crop rotation discussions.

The guard was off by one cross-street (it’s five, not four) but Merlin finds the fountain – some kind of well-worn stone gargoyle spitting a steady stream of murky water out its mouth – and turns to the left. He spots the sign, it’s painted with a pair of trees crossing in the center to form a crude ‘x’, and makes his way inside.

He’s immediately put in mind of The Rising Sun back in Camelot. The atmosphere is similar, as is the class of clientele, and the place is doing a steady business. He asks the matronly woman behind the bar for ale and for a bowl of stew, saying, “The Royal Stableman recommends it very highly.” Which earns him, if not a smile, than at least a less suspicious scowl.

Merlin carries his brimming mug over to an empty table somewhat in the middle of the room and sits down to wait on his stew and people watch. He takes a sip of the ale – it’s better than he expected, rich and bitter – and tries not to look too conspicuously like he’s eavesdropping on conversations.  Surrounding him there are a pair of rough-looking men discussing fishing, some other men who appear to be very enthralled in their dice game, and a rather well-endowed lady trying to entice a nervous young man upstairs, to the amusement of his companions. Ahh, so it’s that kind of place as well. Merlin ducks his smile into his mug.

The hearty vegetable stew, along with a thick crusty piece of bread, is set in front of him by another barmaid, who at least tells him to, “Enjoy, love.”

Merlin thanks her and tucks into his meal. It’s as good as the Stableman had suggested and despite a rather heavy breakfast, he finishes it all in a short time. He’s just scraping the last piece of crust in the bottom of the bowl to soak up the savory broth when a man sits down at his table. Merlin looks up, curious.

“Y’mind?” The man asks, and waves his mug loosely around. “Rest o’ the tables are full.”

“Not at all.” Merlin shakes his head. He pops the last bit of sodden bread into his mouth and washes it down with a long draught.

“They do a good stew here,” the man says conversationally.

Merlin nods. “Yes, it was quite good.”

“Now, Fox’s Tail does better mutton, but it’s best to go only for supper. Lunch is too much of the scraps and fat and leavings.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep. And you’ll want to avoid the potted meat on Sunday at Maiden and Apple. It’s more pottage than meat for one thing, not to mention the cook’s lad has been see to gather up a cat or two. Not sayin’ that’s where they end up, but there ain’t no cats livin’ in that Inn if you catch my meaning.”

Grimacing, Merlin replies, “Thanks for that tip.” Sensing an opportunity, Merlin carefully asks, “So you’re quite familiar with the area then? I only ask as I’m newly arrived to Egfrid’s lands.”

The man’s expression darkens and he turns his head to spit on the floor. When he looks back at Merlin his eyes are narrowed warily. “Why would you go and do a thing like that?”

“Like what?”

“Come to Egfrid’s kingdom?” the man says, like that shouldn’t even be a question.

Merlin scrambles for a quick answer. “Oh, well my Mother lives in Essetir, but uh, in a small village. Time have been tough there.” He shrugs. “High taxes and poor crops this past season.” The man nods, like he’s heard it before. “And she wanted me to get out on my own.”

“Well ye could’ve picked a better place, that’s for certain, boy.”

“Is it really that terrible?” he asks as innocently as he can. Let this man think he’s some kind of country boy, new to the city and all its dark and tempting ways.

“Bad enough under that tyrant Lot, it was. But now?” He lowers his voice. “Best hope you don’t get snatched-up for the mines.” The man sits back then and glances around fearfully, like he’s said too much.

Mines? Torn between wanting to press, and not wanting to scare the man away, Merlin makes a neutral offer. “Let me buy you the next one,” he nods towards the man’s half-empty mug. “As thanks for the advice. I’m uh, George, by the way.” He feels a bit deceitful, lying about who he is, but he doesn’t know if there’s been any talk outside the keep about the King of Camelot and his servant called Merlin.

The man eyes him cagily for a long moment, then finally bobs his head. “All righty, George. I’ll take you up on that. And I’m called Rebbin.” They shake hands and then Merlin flags down the barmaid who’d carried over his stew and requests two more ales.

Merlin tries a bit more small talk. “Any other advice you can give me? I’m sleeping in a stable for the moment, and doing chores for my keep. But they can’t keep me on, and I’m looking for work.”

Rebbin gives him an appraising once-over. “It’s unfortunate that I’m full up at the moment.” At Merlin’s puzzled frown he explains. “I’ve got the only cooperage in the city. Though you’ve not really got the look of a Cooper about you.” He narrows his eyes. “You’re a bit of a scrawny lad, but I heard that Russell the Blacksmith was looking for more help. Lost his second apprentice in as many weeks.” He taps the side of his nose, like Merlin’s supposed to understand.

“Lost?”

Rebbin rolls his eyes. “The mines, boy. Did I not just get done sayin’ that?”

“Right,” Merlin hurries to say. “Right.”

The barmaid returns with their fresh ales and Rebbin toasts him jauntily before taking a long pull from his. Merlin knows that too much ale will get him lightheaded, and he wants to keep his head straight, so he sips at his.

Smacking his lips after his hearty draught, Rebbin starts talking. “If you’re lookin’ for more advice, George, I’ll tell ya that it’s best to stay on this side of o’ the wall after nightfall. ‘Course ya can’t always help that, can ya?” He shakes his head. “An’ stay clear of any of those wearin’ the king’s colors. They’re as like to stop you and throw you in the dungeons for looking at ‘em sideways. Or, like I said, it’s off to the mines with ya.”

Merlin leans in closer. “I’m sorry, Rebbin. Maybe it’s because I’m new here, but what are these mines you keep talking of?”

“You ain’t heard of the mines yet?” Rebbin frowns.

Merlin shakes his head. “Not more than in passing,” he hurries to add.

“And it’s best to keep it that way,” Rebbin says firmly.

“Oh, I see,” Merlin replies, trying for as pathetically hangdog a look as possible.

It works. “Oh, all right. But don’t you go spreading this around.”

Merlin nods eagerly.

“Y’see, just on the borders of Essetir, there are some deep caverns that are supposed to be rich with gold. Egfrid’s been sending all his prisoners there to work the mines, and when the workers run low, his guard ain’t shy about snatching up beggars and layabouts and the occasional honest young man to work them for him. He’s a greedy one, Egfrid is.” Rebbin leans in closer. “You know ‘bout the way that Egfrid won the crown, don’t you?”

“Um, I’d heard that Lot and his closest followers went mad.” He’d heard more than that, but doesn’t want to divulge too much (or subsequently, _how_ he knows it).

Rebbin snorts nosily. “Well, if you call havin’ a sword put to your back and walkin’ you off the battlements goin’ mad, then that’s as accurate as can be told.”

“So it was murder?” Merlin feigns a frown. “Why did no one stop Egfrid from taking the throne then? If he murdered Lot and people know it, shouldn’t he be in the dungeons?”

That gets a shrug. “It’s not known for certain. ‘Spect they couldn’t prove it. Egfrid’s a sneaky one. Word is certainly that the council who took over after Lot met his end were reluctant to give up their control to him. They did so, as there was a throne sitting empty, but he’s sitting in it at their graces.” He tips his mug toward Merlin. “The people certainly didn’t want to stand for it, either. Lot may have been a bastard and unnaturally cruel to his enemies,”– he shakes his head– “but he knew the wisdom in keeping his kingdom running smoothly. Egfrid gives no cares for the folk here.

“Rumour is he’s after wanting to start a war with that poncy young king in Camelot. That’s why he invited him here. Like to kill him, truth be told. He’s wanting that land and access to the rest of the mines. Half of ‘em extend into Camelot lands.”

Merlin has to force himself to not react to the poncy comment (though he bristles slightly), and instead focuses on Rebbin’s words about the mines. It seems that it’s not only shoring-up his status as King that Egfrid’s after, but the war he’s trying to get Arthur to start will benefit him in much more pragmatic ways as well. There’s just one thing troubling him. “But if it’s common knowledge that Egfrid’s looking for war with Camelot, why would the council let him get away with it?”

“Firstly, because they’re meant to represent the interest of the people. And they know that letting Egfrid run roughshod over the stability of the kingdom will not sit well with those that could cause trouble.” He lifts a brow significantly. “There’s still a population hereabouts who would likely revolt should Egfrid bring on open war.”

He raises two fingers on the hand gripping his mug. “Second, the council likes the gold well-enough as things stand now, but they’d never truck with a war to gain it. Least not one started by this side. Camelot’s got friends.  Friends that might be willing to side with her should Egfrid press for war. Not much good getting all that gold if it goes toward funding a drawn-out battle. But should that Pendragon play into Egfrid’s hands and force the decision, well…” he lets the thought trail off and spreads his hands, the mug tipping dangerously as he does so.

Out of sheer frustration Merlin downs the rest of his ale in a long gulping swallow.

“Aye, it’s a lot to take in,” Rebbin says with a laugh, completely misreading Merlin’s reaction.

“How is it you know so much?” Merlin asks after wiping his mouth on his sleeve, suddenly suspicious.

Rebbin just laughs. “It’s like I said, George: I’m the only Cooper in the city. Not a day goes by that I’m not in one of these here taverns or inns getting the latest gossip.” He lifts his mug and taps it against Merlin’s.

Giving a distracted nod, Merlin listens with half an ear as Rebbin goes on a bit longer, talking about some locals that Merlin has no familiarity with, but his thoughts are elsewhere. He can’t get to Arthur right now, not without a very good reason to interrupt the treaty discussion, and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to get to the training fields later. Which means the information he’s just learned won’t get to Arthur’s ears until later this evening.

Merlin’s had enough of the tavern and the conversation.

He waits until there’s a pause – Rebbin finishing up one rather ribald tale about a fishmonger’s wife and drinking thirstily – and then pushes away from the table. “Thank you for the conversation, Rebbin, and the advice. I’m afraid I’ve spent my last coins and I’d like to see if I could speak with that blacksmith you mentioned before it’s too late in the day.”

Rebbin nods. “Aye, you’d best speak to Russell sooner than later. He’ll be on the lookout for more help quick enough. Be sure to tell him you come recommended by Rebbin the Cooper.”

Standing, Merlin gives a quick nod. “I will, and thank you.”

“Good luck to ye, George.”

The sun is still high overhead when he steps outside, and he’s rather surprised at that. He’d thought more time had passed; or perhaps hoped it was later than it is…

Merlin debates returning to the castle, and decides against it after only a quick thought. There’s no point being there if Arthur’s not around. Besides, he still wants to avoid Gerold if at all possible.

There’s one place in the city he’s not explored yet.


	3. Chapter 3

The marketplace is as much a bustle of activity as Merlin expected it to be. Located in a central area of the inner city, and abutting the dividing wall, the main gates that separate the two areas lead into its heart. On the far – underprivileged – side of the wall the marketplace exists as a ramshackle spread of dilapidated carts, stacked crates and rickety stalls, but there’s a clear delineation when it passes beyond the wall where the whole thing has a look of permanence and prosperity. Many of the vendors sell their wares out of small, but fixed wagons or entirely enclosed stands. There are even a few storefronts scattered here and there.

He browses, wandering from shop to stall and examining various goods; mostly he’s just passing time and listening for any gossip the might filter out from the practice fields. Arthur hadn’t been clear on when the matches were to be held.

There’s definitely rumour going around - he overhears it from chattering patrons at several different sellers – that the Knights of Camelot will face Egfrid’s Knights in a show of skills. While there seems to be quite a bit of speculation on the outcome – and some betting on the sly – no one says much more than that.

Has the contest happened yet? It would be important news, wouldn’t it, if one of Egfrid’s or Camelot’s men were killed in the matches?

Merlin tries to engage a couple of those chatting about their wagers in conversation, wealthier citizens by the look of them, but they won’t deign speak to him when he admits he’s only a servant.

Frustrated, he continues on, hoping to pick up more.

A few yards further, while watching a glass-blower at work, he hears another muttering about ‘a fair match-up’ and he turns to find the speaker. He nearly rocks back on his heels when he spots a familiar face in the crowd.

It was inevitable, Merlin supposes, that Gerold would track him down. Hadn’t he and Arthur decided that it only made sense for Gerold to follow _him_ , since Gerold had no need to stick with Arthur, who would be under Egfrid’s watchful eye the whole of the day. He’d been anticipating Gerold’s appearance, but just hadn’t quite expected him to show up out of the blue like this. Merlin hadn’t thought him capable of being that sneaky.

It makes Merlin wonder just how long Gerold’s been on his heels. Did he follow Merlin into _The Crossed Elms_? Merlin kept an eye on the patrons coming and going, but the tavern _had_ gotten crowded as late morning bled into noon.

It’s also interesting that Gerold seems to be making no effort to stay out of sight. He looks over at Merlin at one point directly, making eye contact, and then looks away, lifting his nose haughtily. Merlin just shrugs that off.

Eager not to rouse suspicion, Merlin continues his perusal of the wares on display. He supposes he should actually buy something so it looks like he’s out in the city for a reason. He stops by a row of vendors selling fresh fruits and vegetables, and also the occasional stand of fresh baked goods.  For appearances sake (since he finished a rather generous serving of stew only a short while ago) he purchases a meat pie from a strolling woman hawking them out of a flat box that she’s got braced against her stomach and hanging from straps around her neck.

The pie is still warm from the oven. It’s handed to him wrapped in a bit of slick parchment and he breaks it in half and nibbles on it contemplatively as he walks, just milling in with all the other folk as they meander the narrow paths.

As he approaches the area where the wall nearly divides the market in two, he spots a little girl sitting cross-legged near the gate, her back to the stones. She can’t be any more than six or seven years old, and is wearing only a dingy, oft-patched tunic over no hose, nor shoes.  The girl isn’t overtly begging, no grimy little hands held out for a scrap of food or coin, but the look she gives each passer-by is imploring.

She looks hungry.

Merlin still has half his meat pie left. He looks down at it and then over at the girl and starts to make his way over there.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The nasty-voiced comment catches Merlin off-guard. He turns, spotting Gerold at a cloth merchant just a few yards away. Puzzled, he starts to ask what Gerold means, when the other man nods towards the little girl.

“They’re disgusting, nasty little things. You wouldn’t catch me wasting my coin on their ilk.” He sniffs so disdainfully that Merlin’s surprised he doesn’t inhale the scrap of shiny cloth he’s leaning in to inspect.

Merlin just shrugs. “Camelot supports all her citizens,” he says decisively and walks over to the little girl. He lowers himself to a knee next to her. “Hello,” he says in as friendly and disarming a voice as he can.

The girl looks up at him with wide, wary blue eyes. “’Lo.”

Merlin shows her the remaining half of his snack. “Would you like this?” He holds it out. “Here,” he says gently. “Why don’t you take the rest of this? I’ve had my fill.” He smiles again.

Though she still looks unsure of him, the girl reaches up slowly with a thin-boned arm. She hesitates a moment and then snatches it from him before he can do anything like move it out of her reach. Merlin wonders – with a pang – how often she’s had that done to her in the past. He grins even more broadly. “There you go.”

Clutching tight at the piece of pastry – almost squeezing out some of the remaining filling – she whispers a very tremulous, “Thank you, sir.” And then she’s up on her feet in a flash and has scampered off to the other side of the wall before Merlin can even ask her name.

He stands and dusts off his trousers and is about to turn back to see Gerold’s reaction – he’s sure the man will be scowling at his disgusting display of generosity – when a hand claps on his shoulder. He turns to see a man dressed in guardsman's livery. A second hand circles hard around the other arm, squeezing like a vice around his bicep. He whips his head around to face a second guard.

“What’s the meaning of this? What’s going on?” he asks frantically looking from one stern face to the other.

It’s not one of the guards who answers, but Gerold sauntering over slowly. “Oh, well you see, it is against Egfrid’s laws, and therefore the laws of the kingdom, to give charity to the poor. They’re a drain on the good, hard-working citizens of Essetir. I’m afraid,”–he goes on, with no sympathy whatsoever–“it’s a very serious crime to give them charity or offer them succor.”

Merlin feels as if his heart plunges to his feet. There’s a terrible lurch in his stomach and all the blood rushes from his face, while a frisson of fear works its way down his spine.

No, he thinks frantically. No, no, no! This can’t be happening.

This is just what Egfrid wants. Egfrid will use this against Arthur.

He curses himself even as Gerold directs the guards, “Take him back up to the keep. We’ll need to report this to his… king.”

There’s a moment where Merlin contemplates using magic to get away. He could escape the guards, yes, but he has no idea what he’d do after that. Try and find Arthur? And then try to get Arthur and the rest of their party out of the city? All the while being hunted down by Egfrid’s men…

No. That’s something else they wanted to avoid.

He’s going to have to accept this.

Merlin goes along willingly. Not that the guards seem to realize that, inasmuch as they’re dragging him between them. A third guard meets them halfway up the long drawbridge that leads into the heart of the keep, iron shackles swinging menacingly from his hands.

“Hold out your arms,” the guard instructs.

Merlin does so. He feels the cold bite of metal close around each wrist. The chains is heavy; it drags his arms down and pulls at his shoulders.

The third guard doesn’t say anything else, just turns around and walks back across the bridge into the keep. The two flanking him drag him bodily onward.

From his trailing position just behind them Gerold is saying something to him – more chastisement about his supposed crime – but Merlin’s not listening. He’s too filled with dread and guilt over what he’s done. For all his words of caution to Arthur and Arthur’s admonishments to him to be careful, he’s gone and made the biggest mistake he could.

When they get inside the main foyer of the castle they finally stop and Gerold walks around in front of him again. “Take him to the king’s salon.”

Merlin does struggle then, digging his heels in when the guards try to move him. “I need to see the king immediately.”

“I’m afraid that I can’t interrupt the king while he’s in council,” Gerold says, without an ounce of sympathy. He’s taking no pains to hide his glee.

“Then take me to see Arthur,” Merlin insists.

Gerold shakes his head. “No, you’re going to have to wait.”

“Arthur’s not going to stand for this,” Merlin spits out.

“Oh, we’ll see what your king stands for,” Gerold replies smarmily. “I’m sure he’s not going to be very thrilled with you though, for interrupting his treaty negotiations.”

Merlin scowls even as he’s roughly escorted down another hall to a small room. He’s just going to have to hope – beyond hope – that he gets a chance to talk to Arthur alone. To explain.

Inside the little room the guards let go of him, but they only move far enough away to take seats in chairs on either side of the door. It’s the only entrance into the room, so escape is impossible. Merlin starts toward a chair – at least he can sit while they wait – but the first guard stands up and takes a menacing step toward him. He only sits down again when Merlin goes back to standing in the center of the room.

They continue to wait in the antechamber for quite some time. Gerold shows up at one point and just paces back and forth, pausing now and again to tsk at Merlin, or shake his head. The guards to either side of the entrance remain still and quiet.

Eventually, a castle page comes into the room. Gerold walks over to him and the two have a low-voiced conversation that Merlin can hear very little of. Gerold straightens after a moment and then instructs the guards, “Watch him.” He follows the page out of the room.

A heavy sigh slips past Merlin’s lips. He knows the kind of game Gerold is playing. He wants Merlin even more off kilter than he already is, so that he’ll be on shaky footing when he faces the king. He rubs softly at either wrist where the iron bracelets rub into his skin, chafing him already, and tries not to think about how Arthur is going to take this.

When Gerold returns, to Merlin’s surprise it’s with Egfrid in tow. The guards rise when he enters and move to flank either side of him again. As if Merlin is some kind of threat to the king… Well, he _could_ be, but they don’t know that.

“Well, what is it we have here?” Egfrid asks with deep, hearty amusement. “Caught ourselves a little disobedient mouse, have we?”

“Your highness,” Merlin begins, but one of the guards knocks him heavily in the back of the head with an elbow or a fist. Something hard and prominent.

“You don’t speak to the king,” the guard barks out.

Vision spinning from the blow, Merlin drops his chin to regain his equilibrium and waits for Egfrid to talk.

“So,” he finally begins after a long, ponderous silence. “My valet tells me that you were observed giving food to a beggar child, within the confines of the inner wall.”

Merlin looks up at him but holds his tongue. He’d really rather not get cuffed in the head again.

Egfrid looks a little disappointed at his restraint. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” he asks, prompting Merlin to actually reply.

“I did not know it was against your laws. I know that’s no excuse, but I would ask for your leniency.”

Egfrid actually seems to consider that a moment. He rubs his fingers through the patchy beard on his chin and tilts his head from one side to the other, eyeing Merlin like he’s some kind of beast up for auction. “Well, if that’s the case –” he begins, but is interrupted by Gerold.

“But my lord, I did warn him not to do it.”

Merlin sputters indignantly. “You didn’t tell me it was against any–“ There’s another sharp, painful rap against his skull. He shakes his head and blinks. This one was even harder than the last and his ears are ringing from it.

“You would do well to be silent, boy!” Egfrid barks out, all signs of that placid, amused mien gone from his face; it’s replaced with a cruel mask of gleeful hatred. “My valet tells me that he advised you not to do it, and yet you did it anyway.”

“I did not know,” Merlin grits out and then flinches; anticipating the next strike, but none comes.

“Well,” Egfrid says, once again airily. It’s alarming how quickly his mood turns. “We’ll see what your King Arthur has to say about this.” He turns to Gerold. “Fetch him in here.”

Gerold bows his head obediently. “Yes, my lord.” He hurries out of the room.

Egfrid is silent while they wait, though there’s a contemplative look on his face that Merlin finds alarming. It seems safest (at least for the state of his skull) to remain quiet and keep his head down, but Merlin can’t help but keep an eye on the door.

He’s utterly dreading Arthur’s reaction. Have they even told him what’s going on? Does he know they’ve arrested Merlin? Or is he going to walk into the room blind, and be confronted with the sight of Merlin in irons?

He knows – very deep down Merlin _knows_ – that Arthur’s feelings for him are complex… and perhaps he doesn’t even understand them himself. Goodness knows Merlin sometimes can’t reconcile his own affection for Arthur when the man is being an utter prat. The root of what Arthur feels may not align with Merlin’s own extreme, if well-hidden, emotions – not that he hasn’t quietly hoped for that very thing – but Merlin would never doubt that Arthur _cares_ strongly for him.  

Arthur’s capable of maintaining control of himself when it’s his own health or even life at risk, but Merlin has seen just how bare and naked his emotions can be when he’s forced to witness those he cares about in peril. And Merlin knows that Egfrid’s going to be watching for that.

Please let Arthur be angry, he thinks fervently. Anger, at least as an initial reaction, will come across on so clearly on Arthur’s face – turning his cheeks a blotchy red and putting those wrinkles across the bridge of his nose from his eyes narrowing – and anger won’t be something that Egfrid can manipulate.

Concern, on the other hand… Worry… Fear… Those are all things that Egfrid will twist to his advantage.

The door starts to open – he can see Egfrid watching it eagerly – and in desperation, Merlin plasters on a disinterested expression: one of aggravation and annoyance. Let _that_ be the first thing that Arthur sees instead of alarm or fear. Maybe it’ll annoy Arthur into to keeping his head.

Gerold leads the way into the room but hurries to step aside. Arthur is speaking to him, “I’m not sure I understand—“ He stops short, staring into the room in confusion for a moment. His eyes flick from Egfrid to Merlin, to the guards and finally to the chains binding Merlin’s wrists. And Merlin sees the instant it clicks in Arthur’s mind. His face starts to fall…

No! Merlin thinks – almost blurts out, stopping himself only at the very last moment. But the sound of his teeth clacking to bite back the words, or maybe the burst of air forced through his nostril, carries enough that Arthur looks up into his eyes.

Merlin shakes his head. It’s a minute gesture, just the barest move from side to side, and it’s all the warning he can give.

Arthur sees it though, and understands, because the panic that had started to widen his eyes and open his mouth to protest suddenly recedes and the face that stares out at Merlin becomes one of furious resolve. Merlin hopes that at least some of it is feigned for Egfrid’s benefit. Though he expects as the explanation proceeds, it’ll probably become genuine enough.

“What is the meaning of this?” Arthur asks, shifting his focus to Egfrid. “Why is my manservant in irons?”

“I’m afraid, Pendragon, that your manservant was witnessed in the act of breaking a law,” Egfrid explains in a tone that’s near dripping with faux-sympathy. “The guards had no choice but to detain him.”

“What law?” Arthur demands. “Who witnessed this supposed crime?”

Merlin winces. Arthur doesn’t believe Merlin could have done anything wrong… Which would be heartening if it weren’t for the fact that he _did_ do what they’ve accused him of.

“Gerold,” Egfrid beckons his valet forward. “Please explain to King Arthur what you witnessed.”

Arthur’s expression goes, if anything, even tighter and more fiery when he turns to Gerold. Who actually steps back from it, the bravado falling away from his face for a moment under the heat of that glare.

“Well you see, Your Highness, I encountered your servant—“

“Merlin,” Arthur interjects. “His name is Merlin. If you’re going to accuse him of something, have the courtesy to call him by name.”

Damn. That reaction feeds right into Egfrid’s scheming. Merlin bites at his lip urgently, trying to warn Arthur, but Arthur’s gaze is fixed on Gerold.

Gerold inclines his head. “Of course, Your Highness. I encountered Merlin,”–and it sounds so oily the way he says it–“in the central marketplace inside the inner boundaries. In front of myself and these two,”–he indicates the guards–“as well as others in the area, he did knowingly give food to a stray young child. An orphan from the lower quarter by the looks of her.”

Arthur blinks. “That was his crime? He fed a starving child?” He looks incredulously toward Egfrid, as if he’s expecting this to be one big joke.

Merlin knows that feeling well.

“It’s a crime here,” Egfrid replies darkly. “We don’t allow our citizens to support those who would leech off of the hard working people of this kingdom. Child or otherwise, begging is as much against the law.” He turns to snap at the guards. “You should’ve grabbed the girl as well.”

“The girl ran off,” Gerold offers with a sad shake of his head. “Darted beyond the wall before she could be caught.”

“Shame.” Egfrid replies, genuinely disappointed.

While this exchange is going on Arthur is looking between the two in total disbelief. “I’m certain.” he says loudly, bringing their attention back on him. “That Merlin did not know what he did was a crime. In Camelot charity is viewed as a kindness,” he bites off rather sharply.

“I did warn him,” Gerold replies hurriedly.

Egfrid clears his throat noisily and Gerold blanches. “Your pardon, my lord.” He bows deeply and steps back two paces.

Ignoring him, Egfrid addresses Arthur. “He was warned against doing so, and still did not comply. To me that speaks of a deliberate intent to skirt the laws. I cannot ignore such a thing.”

“King Egfrid, I would count it a personal favor if you would allow me to speak privately with my manservant for a moment. I would like to get to the bottom of this.” He’s clearly gritting his teeth, but Arthur manages a very contrite tone.

Egfrid obviously delights in taking an exceptionally long time to deliberate on that answer. He hems and haws over allowing Arthur such a simple thing. He looks considering, and then starts to shake his head, until _finally_ he gives a reluctant nod, as if he’s granting Arthur some huge boon. “I suppose we can allow it, just this once. A personal favor, as you said.”

“Your generosity is much appreciated, Egfrid.” Arthur tells him.

“You two,” Egfrid instructs the guards. “Release him.”

They shove Merlin forward and he stumbles a few steps before getting his balance – it’s thrown off by the heaving chain weighing down the manacles.

“We will leave you, then. The guards will, of course, need to stay in the room. You understand,” Egfrid says, the words thick with mock-regret. He nods his instruction and the guards move back to their positions on either side of the door.

Arthur somehow manages a cordial nod. “Of course,” he agrees. He steps forward and takes a tight grip on Merlin’s forearm, handling him roughly. He tugs, ungently, and Merlin follows him as he stalks across the half dozen paces that the small room allows – as far from the guards and the door as he can manage.

Merlin turns his back to the rest of the room, but he keeps an eye on Arthur’s face as Arthur watches Gerold and Egfrid leave. As soon as the door closes behind them – Merlin can hear the soft click of the latch catching – Arthur’s gaze shifts to him and his eyes are dark and a little bit wild.

“ _Mer_ lin!” Arthur hisses, obviously still mindful of the guards overhearing. If the circumstances weren’t so dire, Merlin would be impressed that Arthur sounds so furious, while his expression is still schooled into that cool, unruffled calm. He’s seen that look on Arthur’s face before _and_ been on the receiving end of the explosion that comes afterward.

“Arthur, I’m sorry!” Merlin whispers urgently. “I truly didn’t do anything–“

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupts, giving his arm a shake. It’s then that Merlin notices that Arthur’s still holding a tight grip on his forearm. He doesn’t let go, either. “Gerold said that he warned you against breaking their law.”

He can’t help but scoff, even though it probably doesn’t look good for him right now. “But he _didn’t_ , Arthur.” Merlin hurries on before Arthur can respond to that. “Please, let me explain.”

Arthur nods, albeit reluctantly. To Merlin’s eyes he looks torn between wanting to yell and wanting to draw Merlin into his arms (which could absolutely be wishful thinking on Merlin’s part… as the reassurance of a hug would be so welcome at this moment).

“I was in the marketplace when I spotted Gerold. I’m not sure how long he’d been following me, but I just continued on with my business and ignored him. I’d had this… well, I’d bought a meat pie.” He tries to flip a hand, but the manacle rubs his wrist and he aborts the motion. “And, there was this little girl, Arthur. She was nothing but skin and bones wrapped in a scrap of fabric. Everyone passing by ignored her… and I suppose I should’ve too.”

“But you didn’t.”

Merlin’s shoulders slump as he nods. He really should’ve realized there was a reason the passers-by weren’t showing any interest in her. “She was sitting in the dirt near one of the stands and I had half the pie left. And Gerold saw my intention. He did _not_ tell me it was against their laws. All that he told me was, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’ And Arthur, there was such disdain in his voice… such disgust. I even asked him then, why I shouldn’t, and all that he told me was that she was disgusting and not worth wasting the coin. How could I not after that…”

Arthur’s jaw firms. “He was baiting you, Merlin. And you fell for it.” His words are clipped and furious.

“You think I don’t know that, Arthur?” Merlin shoots back, equally enraged – though it’s at himself, not at Arthur. He gets a hold of himself though, drops his head to show proper deference because he can hear the clank of metal on metal as the guards by the door shift. They’re obviously ready to intervene if he should do anything stupid.

“I know that,” he repeats, softly. “But in what kind of world would anyone _ever_ think that feeding a starving child could be a crime?” he asks plaintively.

“We can’t have this, Merlin. I can’t…” All the anger is gone from Arthur’s voice and when Merlin risks a glance at his face, it’s troubled and tired. He finally releases Merlin’s arm to scrub a hand over his brow and through his hair. “I’ll talk to Egfrid,” he adds.

Merlin shakes his head. “He’s not going to listen to you, Arthur. You know that. He’s—“

Arthur finishes the sentence for him. “He’s finally got something over me. And he’s going to keep pushing, using you against me until—”

“You won’t!” Merlin interrupts. “You _won’t_ give in no matter what happens to me.”

But Arthur shakes his head. “What if the punishment for feeding a starving girl is having you beheaded or chopping off a limb or burning you at the stake or something of that nature?”

And that’s so close to a fate Merlin’s been avoiding all his years in Camelot that the thought sends a chill through him. He ignores it and just gives Arthur a bland smile. “It won’t be. It _can’t_ be. It’ll be some time in the dungeon, or the stocks.”

“But what if it isn’t? There has to be something I can do to stop all this, Merlin.”

Again, Merlin tries to express himself with his hands and the chain rattles and smacks against his hip. He clenches his fists in frustration. “Look, Arthur, there’s more we need to talk about.”

“There really isn’t, Merlin.”

“We haven’t much time,” Merlin hurries to spit out. “I did learn some things in the city, before I ran into Gerold. And you need to know what I discovered.”

Arthur tries to interrupt, still focused on how to help, but Merlin is beyond that now. “Arthur, listen.” He speaks rapidly, in an urgent whisper. “There’s a gold mine, on the border of Essetir and Camelot. That’s also why Egfrid wants the war. It’s not just to bolster his claim to the throne. He’s after Camelot land for gold… and it’s implied that his council might not be opposed to him getting it, so long as it doesn’t mean any of Camelot’s allies joining in the fight.

“But I was also told that Egfrid is pushing boundaries already with the way he’s been behaving. There are those who unhappy about it. Even hints of an uprising. I think that unless you react in some very extreme way, he’s not going to have the excuse he needs to start a war with Camelot.”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says in that tone that means he thinks Merlin is being an idiot. “You realize that means he’s going to use _you_ to push me to do just that.”

“Yes, I know.” Merlin says, matter-of-factly. “But you have to trust me that I can handle whatever it is that’s to come.”

Arthur gives a very put-upon sigh.

“Promise me that, Arthur,” Merlin insists. “Promise that you’ll trust I can handle this.”

Arthur’s brow furrows and he frowns. “We don’t even know what the punishment is yet, Merlin. You can’t ask me to promise to simply step back and let the man kill you.”

“Fine, then I suppose we should find out.” Merlin turns away from Arthur, and starts back towards the guards.

“Merlin!”

He ignores Arthur. They’re only delaying the inevitable at this point. They can’t make plans on speculation. A heavy, ragged sigh sounds behind him but a moment later Arthur is striding past. “Call for Egfrid,” he instructs the guard shortly.

It’s obvious that Egfrid – and of course Gerold – were just on the other side of the door for as quick as they’re back in the room.

“Probably had an ear to it,” Merlin mutters to himself. Arthur shoots him a sideward glare, but ignores him otherwise.

The guards move back to Merlin’s sides, but they’re much less forceful when they chivvy him away from the others. Merlin suspects it’s the weight of Arthur’s glare that’s tempering them.

“Egfrid,” Arthur begins, “while it is clear that my manservant has inadvertently disobeyed one of your laws, I can only ask that you consider lenience in your judgment upon him. And in the spirit of treaty negotiations and the potential for peace between our kingdoms that your sentencing is just.”

“Oh of course,” Egfrid responds, far too quickly in Merlin’s eyes. “Well I was just saying to Gerold a moment ago that there’s no way we can impose the full sentence on your poor, ignorant manservant.”

Merlin keeps his expression blank and lets the insult slide. He’s already gotten himself into enough trouble speaking out.

“Well now,” Egfrid goes on. “The normal punishment for a crime such as this would be five days in the stocks—“

“Five days,” Arthur blurts, incredulous.

And Merlin knows immediately that was a mistake because Egfrid’s wickedly curling grin just grows all the wider.

“Well yes, five days in the stocks and two-score lashes to be meted out over those five days.” He says it like it’s a surprise to expect otherwise.

Merlin feels cold suddenly; like a trickle of ice water has dripped down the length of his spine.

“Lashes?” Arthur echoes. Again seemingly against his will.  Merlin can’t blame him. It’s utterly beyond anything that would ever be prescribed as punishment in Camelot. Five days in the dungeons, perhaps, at most.

“Not to worry, Pendragon. I would never even consider imposing that full sentence on your loyal servant.”

Merlin hears the heavy sigh that gusts out of Arthur’s mouth at that.

Much as he appreciates the concern on his behalf, once again Arthur’s telegraphing too much. He’s too easy to read.

“Why yes,” Egfrid goes on, in such a pleasant manner they could be speaking of something as idle as the weather. “I’m more than happy to cut that sentence in half. Why less than. Let’s say just three days and nights in the stocks and only a score of lashes.”

Merlin knows that all the blood has rushed away from his face, which is strange because his heart has jumped to a hare’s pace in his chest. Arthur, meanwhile, is silent, though his mouth has flattened to a thin line and his eyes are flinty. For a moment Merlin fears that he’s about to charge Egfrid where he stands.

Egfrid stares back at Arthur, eyeing him almost disdainfully. He says quite sharply, “Is there something you object to, Pendragon? You admitted that your servant did knowingly break a law of Essetir.”

Merlin wants to curse. Arthur agreed that Merlin had done it, yes, but he’d never said ‘knowingly’. Yet if he tries to argue that point now, he suspects that Egfrid will continue to escalate the sentence.

“It’s only that we’re departing in three days’ time, and I need my servant in condition to ride for the return journey.” Arthur finally manages.

“Ahh,” Egfrid nods like he hadn’t considered that. “Well then, I suppose can afford to be even more magnanimous. I’ll say this, though this _is_ the limit of my generosity. He will spend tonight in the dungeons then and stand tomorrow and the following day after, to the next morning. And each day will receive ten lashes. And on the third day I will release him early, with no lashes to be administered, upon conclusion of the talks.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Why, I shall even preside over the sentence execution myself, as a courtesy to a fellow ruler, to ensure it is done in fairness. And you may observe as well, so that all is carried out to your satisfaction. Will you call that fair?” There’s a challenge to the way he asks it.

“That is fair,” Arthur agrees, though he sounds like he’s gritting the words through a mouthful of gravel.

There’s no mistaking Arthur’s tone. Even playing dumb, Egfrid can’t ignore it and raises a brow at him. “You object to my decision?” he asks, daring Arthur to challenge him further. Perhaps he’s hoping this is the moment that will push Arthur beyond his limits.

But Arthur doesn’t snap. In fact, his face goes expressionless and his voice cold. “Not at all,” Arthur replies, once again in total control. Merlin can tell it’s precarious and managed only through a strength of character very few men could muster, but Arthur sounds merely dismissive now – as casual as Egfrid was earlier when idly chatting about sentencing. “No, I just don’t like to be without my servant that long.”

And Merlin already knows how this is going to end. But there must be a reason Arthur’s doing it. He just can’t figure out what it is.  

“Oh, well it would be remiss of me not to address that, Pendragon. I insist you take the service of Gerold here while your man is…” he trails off delicately, then coughs. “Otherwise indisposed.”

Arthur gives a tight smile and nod. “Very good.”

With that agreed upon, Egfrid gestures to the guards. “Take him to the dungeons, then.”

Merlin looks over at Arthur, who can only watch helplessly, as the guards begin to lead him away. “You promised,” he mouths, silently. Which isn’t true, as Arthur’d avoided making that promise, but Merlin doesn’t care. He’s going to hold Arthur to it anyway. He turns resolutely forward and lets himself be marched out of the room by the overly enthusiastic guards.

Once they’re out of sight of Arthur, in the hall moving away from the antechamber, their handling gets rough again and they prod at him and nearly send him stumbling to his knees when he moves too slowly.

It’s almost a relief when they finally reach the dungeon.

One guard opens the creaking door and the other shoves him in unceremoniously. He trips over the metal lip of the door frame, falling forward. With his hands still bound he can’t steady or catch himself and lands hard on his hip and shoulder.

The heavy metal door is slammed shut after him and he looks up to see one of the guards turning the key in the lock with an expression of glee. Both of them start to laugh as they turn away to leave him in the dank cell.

Merlin waits until they’ve gone before struggling to a sitting position. He shimmies and pushes his heels into the damp floor until his back is pressed against the cold stone wall. He takes a few moments to study his prison. It’s really no worse than Camelot’s: straw on the floor, a thin, straw-stuffed pallet with a moth-eaten blanket to sleep on and a bucket in the corner. Though at least in Camelot, some of the cells have narrow benches for sitting (or sleeping).

The dungeons aren’t the most pleasant place that Merlin’s had to pass time, though not the worst either. It’s cool – bordering on cold (and he expects it’ll get quite chilly once the sun goes down) – but he’s at least still got his jacket on. He’d like to take it off, bunch it up into a makeshift pillow, but the manacles prevent that.

He changes his mind about sitting when the cold of the cobbled stone floor starts to seep through his trousers. He crawls, awkwardly, over to the pallet, which is at least resting on the musty straw, and lies down on his side. It’s not easy to get comfortable with his arms bound, but he’s able to rest them close to his body so that the heavy iron doesn’t drag at them. Unfortunately, he’s not all that tired, because sleep would at least pass some time.

Oddly, he doesn’t find dungeons all that confining. He’s been in and out of too many for them to hold fear any longer. He passes some time idly considering how he’d escape this one if he had to. The lock on the cell door would be easy enough, and a sleep spell would take care of the guards (although if it’s the same two who dragged him in here, he’d be tempted to do a bit more than _just_ make them sleep). Disguising himself as Dragoon would conclude his plan, allowing him to simply walk past anyone on his way out of the dungeons.

It’s all for nothing though, as he has no plans to escape. Because all that his disappearance from the cell would do is cause more trouble for Arthur. And he’s already been the source of too many of Arthur’s problems.  

The one comfort he does take from all this is that he hopes Egfrid might consider Arthur already backed into a corner and won’t keep up with his nefarious plotting. To his own detriment, Arthur had reacted strongly to the punishment Egfrid laid out and the king only needs wait until that punishment is carried out to see if Arthur will break. Merlin’s determined not to let him.

If he’s honest with himself, though, he’s rather dreading the upcoming days and nights. He’s only ever spent a few hours in the stocks, at most, back in Camelot. Though there was that one day that Uther had him in and out of them twice in the same day.  And a thorough pelting of rotten fruits and vegetables was usually enough punishment as far as Arthur had been concerned. Not that he’s had Merlin in the stocks in years…

Despite how long it’s been, he can all too clearly remember how the experiences had left him stiff and sore afterwards (not to mention sticky, most of the time, considering the overripe produce the children of the lower town were somehow always quick to get their hands on).

He has a sneaking suspicion that this little sojourn into public captivity isn’t going to be nearly as amusing for all involved. He absolutely refuses to think about the additional part of his punishment.

Whether it’s the mind-numbing boredom of the dungeon or just that he’s worn himself out on anxiety alone, somehow Merlin manages to drift off. He’s woken – minutes, hours? – later by noises coming from down the dark corridor. It sounds like raised voices. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but they finally go silent, only to be followed by the slap of boots on stone.

Merlin rolls to his side and sits up, watching curiously to see who's approaching. If it’s the guards, that could only mean trouble. Though perhaps it’s one of them come with his dinner?

It’s not. It’s Arthur!

He’s flanked by the two guards, but he turns to them when he reaches the bars to Merlin’s cell and says curtly, “I’d like a moment to speak with the prisoner, alone. If you could,” he gives a jerk of his chin.

The two men exchange a glance and then the taller of them shrugs. His companion gestures back down the hallway. “We’ll be just down there,” he warns. Rather unnecessarily, Merlin thinks. It’s not like Arthur’s here to break him out.

Arthur nods. “That’s fine.”

Once they’ve gone, turning out of site around a bend in the corridor, Arthur turns toward the cell and Merlin scrambles to his feet.

“Arthur! Is everything okay?”

A weary sounding scoff parts Arthur’s lips. “I should be asking you that, Merlin.”

“I’m fine, Arthur,” Merlin hurries to reassure him. “Don’t you worry about me. What about the knights? I never even got to find out how the matches went.”

Arthur’s reaction to that question is puzzling. He twists his mouth into a sideward sort of grimace.

“Arthur?” Merlin frowns. “Are they okay? No one died, did they?”

“No, no one died,” Arthur says. “But Egfrid wasn’t exactly happy with how poorly his men fared. And the fact that some of his men were switching out for different opponents became a bit obvious I fear.” He shakes his head. “Percival ended up pitted against a man half his size. I think even he was embarrassed at how easy victory came.  Gwaine and Elyan at least had more balanced matches.  They both disarmed their opponents within minutes, though.”

It’s good news, but Merlin frowns. “Egfrid must’ve hated that. Speaking of the king, is everything all right with Egfrid? Has he tried anything else?”

“No.” Arthur shakes his head slowly. “He’s been nothing but delightful and pleasant.” Arthur’s tone says much more than his words.

Merlin lowers his voice. “He’s been taunting you with this, hasn’t he?”

Arthur groans and lets his forehead fall against one of the thick metal bars. “Endlessly,” he agrees. “I swear I’ve heard of nothing else. Then,”–he lets out a huff of self-deprecating laughter– “I went and made the mistake of suggesting that perhaps your time in the dungeons was punishment enough. That I really didn’t want to be deprived of my own manservant for more than a day.”

Merlin looks up hopefully but Arthur shakes his head, pivoting it from side to side against the bar. “I’m afraid not. He even went so far as to suggest that maybe he’d been too lenient.” He scowls and lifts his head to look through the gaps into Merlin’s face. “I really cannot ask you to do this Merlin. We can…” he trails off rather helplessly.

It clenches at Merlin’s gut to see Arthur so forlorn. He feels so terrible for putting Arthur through this. “It will be fine, Arthur,” he says in his most reassuring tone. “Please don’t worry. I can handle this.” He grins. “I’ve spent plenty of time in the stocks before you know. Plenty of practice.”

Arthur returns the smile briefly, though it falls after only a moment when Arthur replies, “Yes, but we’re not just talking about an extended time in the stocks, Merlin. It’s two full days and nights. They won’t let you out to sleep in the dungeon. You’re to remain out there, exposed, with no shelter or ease.”

Oh. Merlin hadn’t quite realized that.

Well, he _suspected_ it. Though, he’d been hoping it would be a situation where they would set him into the contraption in the morning and release him to spend his evenings back in this cell. Despite that news, he continues to face Arthur with forced-bravado. “I’ll be fine, Arthur. Just trust me.”

Arthur doesn’t look at all reassured. In fact the frown deepens, and the furrow of his brow grows more pronounced. “That’s not even including that fact that they’re talking about lashes. A score of them, Merlin.”

As if Merlin needed reminding. Still, he won’t share his dread with Arthur. “I can handle that too,” he says bravely.

That doesn’t help either. Arthur just slumps even further and shakes his head again. “Have you ever been…?” He can’t seem to find the words to ask the question.

Merlin tries to lighten the mood yet again. “Well, I’ve faced you down on the practice field enough times. I’m sure I can handle a few lashes.”

Damn. That was clearly not the right thing to say.

If anything, Arthur looks as close to devastated as Merlin’s ever seen him. He looks… well, Merlin’s probably kidding himself and reading it as he _wants_ it to be, but for a moment – before Arthur’s gaze drops to the stones or his own boots – Merlin thinks he sees a slight glint of moisture in the corner of Arthur’s eye. But obviously he’s mistaken. That doesn’t make any sense.

“Merlin,” Arthur says slowly, feeling the words out. “Just promise me something, please?”

Before he can say what it is there’s a cough from down the hall and one of the guards peeks his head around the corner. Clearly Arthur’s visit is nearly at an end. “My lord?” the guard calls out gruffly. “That’s been enough time. King Egfrid said only—“

“I know!” Arthur interrupts to bark out. “Just one more minute.”

The guard nods and steps back from view.

“Look, “Arthur puts his hands on the bars, curling them so tight that Merlin can see the tendons in the backs of his hands go taut. “Just promise me that you’ll tell me… or somehow let me know if it’s too much. I’ll find another way to get us out this if I have to.”

Merlin’s heart stutters through several beats. Is Arthur offering to start a war for him? That _cannot_ be what he’s hearing…

And yet, he can only ever recall seeing Arthur like this once or twice before – so torn apart by the awfulness of a situation he can’t control – and that it’s directed towards him is… well it’s astounding, really. But as much as he wants to say ‘yes’, to let Arthur stand up for him and protect him and damn the consequences, he knows that he can’t.

“I’m telling you, Arthur,” he says as firmly and as surely as he can. Daringly, he reaches up and places his hands over Arthur’s fingers still curled over the crossbar. They’re trembling with the force of the grip and Merlin presses firmly over them, rubbing his thumbs across Arthur’s knuckles. “I’ll be _fine_. While I’m sure this won’t be a pleasant experience, you _have_ to trust me when I say I’ll be okay.”

“You’ll tell me, though. You’ll find a way to let me know if it’s too much. All right?” Though he’s asking, it’s not a question. It’s an order.

Merlin nods. Of course, he has no such intention of doing so. It’s not _actually_ a lie if he gets to decide what constitutes ‘too much’.

Arthur echoes the nod. “Good… Good I’m glad we agree on that.” He blows out an unsteady breath and then looks over his shoulder. “I have to go now. I’ll try to do what I can with Egfrid, but….” he lets the thought go unfinished. They both know there’s nothing he can do there.

“Don’t, Arthur. It’s done. You just keep an eye out for Egfrid, all right? Stay safe when I’m not there to protect you.” He adds that last with a bit of a laugh (tinged with a hint of bitterness for how much truth it holds).

The corners of Arthur’s mouth turn up just a fraction: making him look only miserable rather than abjectly disheartened. “Good night, Merlin.” He draws his fingers slowly and – at least to Merlin’s seeming - reluctantly away from the bars and the light press of Merlin’s own fingers over them.

“Good night, Arthur.” Merlin stays standing and watches as Arthur spins on a heel and walks stiffly down the hall. The guards step out to flank him and then all three disappear around the far corner.

Merlin waits until all their footsteps have echoed to silence and all that he can hear is the soft murmuring of the guards talking. He returns to the pallet and carefully eases back down. From the very small window set high up in the wall – too high to allow him to even stand on his tiptoes to get a glimpse of anything other than sky – he can see that it’s night. He can just make out the pinpoint glitter of a few stars against the dark.

He focuses on those twinkling dots, keeping his mind clear and his thoughts quiet. He’s slept already, so much as he’d like to just curl back up and pass the rest of the night in sleep, he knows it will be a long time coming.

Those stars he could see have rotated entirely out of view – replaced with new ones – when another commotion down the guards’ hall catches Merlin’s attention. Once again, he can’t make out the words, but one of the voices definitely has a shrill, feminine tone. It honestly sounds like someone getting a scolding from their mother…

A few moments later the head cook comes down the hallway, and to Merlin’s surprise, the guards stay well back of her. She’s carrying a cloth-covered tray and walking determinedly in Merlin’s direction.

“Hello, dearie,” she greets him cheerily. “I’ve just brought you a bit of supper, since those louts can’t be arsed to _do their job_.” She shoots a glare over her shoulder. When she turns back, she’s smiling. “Now, let’s see what we can do to get this to you.” She turns around again. “Rodger, you get over here right now and unlock this door!” She stamps her foot.

Merlin watches, bemused, as one of the guards comes reluctantly forward and starts to sort through the keys on his ring. The cook can’t be any taller than Guinevere, and there’s a matronly quality to her that reminds Merlin of his own mother, but the guard is acting as cowed as if she’s the king himself.

“Oh and would you look at that,” she complains when Rodger gets the door swung open. “You’ve left those bloody irons on this poor lad. Bad enough what he’ll be enduring tomorrow, but your laziness is going to make it worse.” She huffs angrily. “Well,” she points with an elbow, since her hands are full. “Take them off!”

“But Mella, we’re not–”

She doesn’t let him finish that sentence. “I don’t care what you’re not supposed to do. What’s this lad going to do? Attack you and escape?” she laughs. “Now get in there and undo those accursed things. And you, Ector, get me a chair. I’m not sitting down on this cold stone.”

Sitting? Merlin has no idea why she’ll be sitting, but he doesn’t spare it more than a thought because the guard Rodger is already following her orders and unlocking the manacles from around each wrist. He’s rough about it, but it’s such a relief to have them off that Merlin doesn’t care. “Thank you,” he says, looking to the cook – apparently called Mella.

“You’re welcome dearie.” She hands the entire – well-laden –  tray over to Rodger. “Give that to him, please.”

He hesitates and Mella slaps the sole of her foot loudly against the worn stone floor again. “You’ve already inspected it Rodger. You know there’s nothing he could use for a weapon on that tray. Stop being foolish and give it to him.”

Grudgingly, Rodger hands it over to Merlin. He takes it and almost fumbles the lot, not expecting the weight. Luckily, he manages to right it before anything is lost over the edge.  He lowers it carefully to the floor and sits down cross-legged behind it, facing out of the cell.  When he looks up, Mella is sitting down on a chair and both the guards are trudging back down the hall like kicked dogs.

“I tell you, lad,” she says with a sad shake of her head. “Not the sense that God gave a goat, between the two of ‘em.” She leans a bit further forward and lowers her voice. “Two of Egfrid’s worst, if you must know.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin asks. He’s hungry, but it’s overridden by curiosity as to why Mella not only brought him food, but also why she’s sitting down outside his cell, apparently settled in for some time.

Mella tsks at him and wags a finger. “None of that yet, dearie. Dinner first. I didn’t haul that lot down here to watch you starve with good food in front of you.”

Considering how well she’s got the guards cowed, Merlin decides it’s a good idea to obey. He lifts the cloth off of the tray and lets out a small gasp. Clearly Mella thought she was feeding a dungeon-full for as much food as she’s given him. “This is too much,” he says, picking up the drumstick of something smaller than a chicken (and tastier too, he discovers).

“Oh it’s nothing.” Mella waves that away. “It’s just bits of what’s left over from the King’s dinner.” Again her voice drops to that conspiratorial whisper. “The man eats like a starving boar. Always wants more variety than he needs and too much goes to waste.”

“It’s not that I’m not grateful,” Merlin says, adding a hasty, “because believe me I am. But, why? Why show me such kindness?” He picks up a braised carrot at her firm gesture to keep eating, but apparently his question is enough to get her talking.

“Well, it’s nothing I wouldn’t do for anyone in your predicament, young man.” Again she leans forward, clutching her hands in a knot beneath her ample bosom. “I’m guessing you and that young king of yours have picked up on the talk about our much… reviled ruler. Like how he got himself that throne?”

Merlin nods.

“Well, there are many of the folk here in the castle, and elsewhere, who are none-to-happy with this turn of events.” Her expression turns sly. “Let’s just say that there are events in motion that might change things up. We’ve got a man in place, with closer lines to the throne than Egfrid’s claim, but we’re just needing the right opportunity to make that happen.”

This is the first that Merlin’s heard about open revolution. And coming from someone like Mella, who puts Merlin in mind of his own mother, it’s just disconcerting. Though… perhaps that _is_ an apt comparison. He’s seen his mother wield a sword against invading bandits, fighting like a cornered she-wolf protecting her cubs.

It’s definitely intriguing, if not wholly surprising (it just confirms the hints he’s picked up on) but her explanation still doesn’t clarify why she’s being so considerate to _him_.

He starts to ask, but once again is admonished with an instruction to, “Eat up! You’re far too skinny, if you don’t mind my saying.” But she gets the gist of what he’s wondering because she goes on, “You and that king of yours are of interest to us, because you’re of interest to Egfrid. He wants war with Camelot, but knows he won’t get council support for it unless your Arthur provokes it somehow.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. With a mouthful of flaky pie crust and plump, sweet berries he can’t exactly voice his surprise.

“Oh, we know all about it,” Mella confirms. The almost conversational whispering suddenly goes harsh. “That rat-faced servant of his, Gerold, liked to use his position to force some of the young girls in the kitchen and keep into showing him attentions.”

For a moment she looks so much like Kilgharrah when he’s angry that Merlin half expects her to breathe fire. “Deplorable is what it is.” She glowers. “Some of our more experienced girls have played up to his affections, to protect the younger ones. And, well… Gerold is a talker in bedchamber. Likes to brag, he does. Since he’s got the king’s ear, we get information practically from the horse’s mouth. Or in this case, it’s more like the horse’s arse.” She sniffs, like there’s a foul stench on the air.

If Merlin didn’t already have a reason to despise Gerold, he’s got more than enough now. Suddenly the delicious meal he’s been eating feels like a lump of cold porridge in his stomach.

“Oh, don’t you worry, dearie,” Mella tells him fiercely, “we protect our own. Those that play at fancying that piece of refuse know what they’re doing. And we’ve got a system in place to make sure none of the younger ones are ever alone with him. Not anymore.” Cornered she-wolf certainly works for Mella too.

“So,” she goes on, cheery once again. “We can’t let Egfrid get away with bringing about that war. Now, you bein’ in here… that’s a shame. We’d not known Gerold was going to be following you today. And much as I hate to say it, stopping this,”–she gestures loosely to the cell–“isn’t likely. But you seem like a strong lad. And it’s clear you’ve got a fierce heart for that king of yours.”

Merlin blanches. “Um… I, errr. What do you… How do you, uh, know?” He’s at a complete loss for words.

Mella waves away his sputtering. “Oh, some of the girls saw you serving him at the banquet. Thought they might have to interfere with you, rather than _him_ for a while there, when Egfrid started in with his nastiness. But you both handled yourselves quite well.” She beams at him.

“Thank you.” He’s surprised how pleased he is at her praise. “We, uh, figured out what Egfrid was up to fairly early on.”

“Well good on you, lad. Knew your Arthur had to be a good sort. And clever to boot. We’ve heard some of the talk out of Camelot of how much good he’s done there. So now, if you just take care of yourself these next days, we’ll see that Arthur’s got eyes on him.” Her smile turns sympathetic. “We’ll do what we can to ease things for you as well, dearie. Just stay strong for him, you got that?”

Merlin nods dutifully (and is glad there’s so little torchlight at this end of the corridor, because it means his blush is – hopefully - hidden in the dark).  He looks down at the tray, and there are only a couple of sausages and some cheese left on it. “Do you want this back?”

“No, I’ll collect it tomorrow. What’s left will keep well enough until morning. In case these jack-a-ninnies forget to bring you your breakfast.” She winks at him.

As she starts to ease up from the chair, her knees creaking audibly, Merlin hurries to ask, “Is there anything else we can do? Arthur and I? Anything that might help your cause?”

She shakes her head. “No, lad. We’ve got this well in hand. We just need your king safely out of Essetir before we can act.”

“What of the guards?” Merlin wonders, seeing that Mella’s probably going to have to call one back to collect the chair. “Won’t they wonder why you’re in here talking with me for so long?”

Mella lets out a throaty chuckle. “Nay, lad. Them boys think I’m down here lecturing you on the evils of drink and other vices. It’s something I do for the prisoners now and then. They don’t like to hear me going on about how every one of their favorite doings are speeding their path towards the realm beyond, so they keep a wide berth. Gives me a chance to talk to the right ones, like you, with them none the wiser.” She winks.

A gust of genuine laughter bursts out from Merlin’s mouth before he can stop it. “Thank you, Mella.”

“You stay strong, Merlin.” She says and Merlin hadn’t realized she knew his name.

While she heads back down the long corridor, Merlin wipes his hands on the cloth that had been covering the tray and then uses it to wrap the food remaining. He sets it aside in the corner, where he won’t be likely to kick it in his sleep. If Mella’s right he’ll probably be lucky if the guards remember to feed him in the morning.

Having the free use of his arms means that Merlin can finally try to get more comfortable on the lumpy pallet. He shoves off his coat and rolls it into a ball. It’s served him as a pillow on many a hunting trip with Arthur. The thin blanket, while holey and fragrant with mildew is at least wide enough he can fold it in half and still cover most of himself with it. It all makes for a tolerable bed for the night. Even better is the fact that a full belly and far too much information are enough of a soporific that Merlin finds himself drifting off to sleep only a few minutes after getting settled.


	4. Chapter 4

Merlin’s woken the following morning by the rattling of his cell door.

“Oi, you. Wake up in there.” A different guard than one of those posted last evening is shaking the bars, clanging the metal fastenings.

Merlin pushes up blearily from his rather uncomfortable sprawl and already knows it’s going to be hell in the stocks, because despite the straw and thin pallet, the cold has seeped into his muscles, and he aches. He’s sore and chilled-through and exhausted despite having apparently slept through the night.

“Here.” The guard opens the door far enough to pass in a metal bowl.

Hurrying for it – as the man sounds impatient – Merlin knee-walks the few feet to the extended hand and proffered bowl. He takes it with a muttered, “Thanks.”

“You finish that quick now,” the guard instructs, fastening the lock. “And then we’re to take you up to the square when you’re done. Hurry up, now,” he chides when Merlin doesn’t immediately set to eating.

He’s been given no spoon, and the bowl is brimming with a thick porridge. He knows better than to ask for one, but he does risk asking something else. “Could I get some water?”

The guard sighs, like it’s some kind of huge imposition, but he nods. “All right. I’ll be back with it.” He leaves at a brisk pace.

While the porridge actually doesn’t look all that unappealing (he suspects Mella had a hand in getting it to him) he’s also got the sausages and cheese that are still carefully wrapped in the corner. Merlin had worried about mice or rats getting to them while he was asleep, but they survived the night. He gulps down a sausage and uses the wedge of cheese to scoop out large mouthfuls of porridge, which is sweetened and spiced and lumpy with chunks of tart apple – definitely Mella’s hand.

Merlin doesn’t know when he’ll next get a meal, so even when his stomach starts to protest being stuffed too full of the thick, pasty stuff, he forces it down. There’s only a little left in the bowl by the time the guard gets back and passes a brimming cup through the bars.

“Thank you,” Merlin tells him.

The man grunts, but he looks pleased with Merlin’s polite appreciation.

Much as he’d like to linger over the remains of the porridge and put off the inevitable a little bit longer, he’s going to have to face this sooner or later. He’d rather not irritate the guard who’ll be responsible for escorting him.

“I’m finished,” he says, having drained the cup (using a little bit of the water to rinse sticky porridge from his fingers) and almost emptied the bowl.

“Set those down on that tray,” the guard instructs. “We’ll send someone in for them.” Once Merlin complies, he waves him over. “All right, c’mon, you.” He unlocks and opens the door, swinging it wide to allow Merlin room to step out of the cell.

Again, Merlin is reminded that he could easily escape right now. A few softly muttered words and this guard would be asleep. And though there’s probably a second guard at the end of the hall, he could slip past that one easily as well.

And yet again, Merlin banishes those thoughts. It’s the fear putting them in his head. He can’t afford to let the fear overwhelm him. Arthur will see right through any sort of mask he tries to put on if he can’t get control of himself. He suspects that staying strong for Arthur’s sake is going to be his personal litany these next days.

The guard guides him out of the cell – only a hand on his upper-arm, and not too tight - and down the hall where they’re joined by a second as Merlin suspected they would be. One leads while the other follows, and Merlin’s just grateful that they didn’t clap him in irons again. They exit the dungeon through a hall Merlin’s never been down and step out into an over-bright morning. He blinks watering, dark-adapted eyes.

The sky is clear, cloudless blue and though it’s early yet, it promises to be a warm day for the season.

It doesn’t bode very well for his time in the stocks.

At least back in Camelot he’d only spent a few hours out at a single go, and none had been through the worst heat of the day. He looks around as he’s walked around to the back of the castle into a vast open yard.

Camelot’s stocks are right in the center of the lower town, just outside the keep, in an area that has constant foot traffic. It’s the most exposed space, and allows for a surfeit of passers-by who can take a moment from their day to hurl an insult or a rotten tomato, or both.

To Merlin’s surprise, this isn’t some public square. Just a wide grassy swath that’s hemmed in on three sides by high stone walls, with the final length backed up against the castle. It would look like a training yard, or something similar if it weren’t for the various structures scattered inside.  There’s a large square of trampled dirt almost dead center, and that’s where the wooden pillory is set into the earth.

Surrounding it are a hangman’s noose dangling down from a tall scaffold, some other wooden contraption that Merlin just hopes he never understands (it looks painful), and an axeman’s block, also set on a small platform. Everything looks well-worn, the wood smooth and stained… Merlin would be naïve to assume the spots of dark coloration soaked into the planks are just water.

There’s a small crowd gathered around a raised dais at the near end of the yard. That’s where Egfrid is seated. He’s the only one sitting. Surrounding him are men Merlin assumes are nobles, court officials and those on the council. An equal amount of guards are also positioned to Egfrid’s flanks and rear.  Gerold stands just behind and to the left of the king, and he’s leaning to speak into Egfrid’s ear.

Arthur’s also up there, standing stiffly to the right of Egfrid’s mock-throne.

Merlin understands then, that this isn’t anything like the stocks in Camelot for a very good reason. This _isn’t_ about public humiliation as a punishment… it’s about the physical act of the punishment itself. The whipping, the physical torture of being bound in a contorted position for long hours.

The hearty meal he’d eaten sits like a lead weight in his stomach, and Merlin very much fears that he’s going to vomit.

It’s only because Arthur is there, facing forward resolutely, his chin high and shoulders back, that Merlin is able to swallow down the feeling.

Merlin takes solace from his presence. He knows he should keep his eyes forward – not look at Arthur – but he can’t help glancing over as he’s led to that dirt patch in the center of the square. Arthur’s standing stiff, but there’s a darkness around his eyes and a pallor to his skin that suggests he didn’t sleep much last night.

He doesn’t want to add to Arthur’s strain, giving him even more cause to worry, so Merlin keeps his head up also and walks as surely as he can while being urged forward, the second guard steering Merlin’s steps with a hand on his shoulder. Two more guards are waiting by the still closed stocks, and when he reaches them they roughly guide him to stand facing the dais, and place his hands atop the crossbar, spaced far apart. One pushes his head down and he keeps it bowed, though he lifts his gaze as far as he can.

There’s some signal between one of the guards and the king. Egfrid stands.

“Good people of Essetir. We come together today to stand witness to the execution of sentence upon Merlin, royal manservant to King Arthur of Camelot. Merlin of Camelot, you stand before us accused and justly convicted of the crime of knowingly abetting and offering succor to a beggar within the boundaries of the city, where this is forbidden. For this crime, which normally carries a much harsher punishment, this kingdom chooses lenience.” He nods his head toward Arthur deferentially.

If things weren’t so desperately serious, Merlin might roll his eyes at Egfrid’s dramatics.

“First, there is the matter of a score of lashes to be meted out in two parts. Half today and half tomorrow. Then you shall stand in two nights and two days in pillory. And here again, we are benevolent and merciful.” He spreads his hands beatifically, like he’s bestowing some generosity. “You will be released from your confinement twice each day and, under guard, will be allowed bread and drink and access to the privy.”

Gerold actually looks rather put out by that; the concession wasn’t part of what Egfrid had mentioned yesterday. Merlin wonders if Arthur spoke to Egfrid on his behalf again. He certainly hadn’t relished the idea of being stuck in his own filth, to say nothing of being left to starve the whole time. It’s more than he’d hoped for, actually, but he worries what it may have cost Arthur to gain it.

“Do you understand these conditions as I have explained them?” Egfrid asks, looking down at him for the first time.

Merlin nods.

One of the guards jabs him in the ribs with an elbow and – after huffing out a pained breath – Merlin wheezes, “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Very well,” Egfrid continues. “Punishment will commence.” He raises a hand to a man standing further off to the side who’s got the long length of a braided leather whip held in a loose coil in his hand.

Egfrid nods. “Ten lashes, then.”

Merlin is pulled away from the braced position on the stock, and then the guards wrestle his tunic off. He tries not to fight it, but they’d said nothing of stripping him bare-chested, and he doesn’t know how to move to make it any easier. If they’d asked, he’d have removed the tunic himself instead of being forcibly disrobed. By the time they’ve got it off of him, his tunic is torn and tossed aside in the dirt and he knows he’ll have bruises coming up.

They shove him to his knees then, a guard driving his own knee into the back of Merlin’s thigh to bring him down.  Once again his hands are drawn wide and placed on either side of the pillory board. He clutches tight at the wood and braces for what’s to come. The guards step away then, but Merlin knows he’s not supposed to move.

He can’t bring himself to look at Arthur. He knows that Arthur needs to keep a stoic face through this, and he doesn’t want to give Arthur any reason to react outwardly.

Though he doesn’t see the man with the whip approach - he’s keeping his gaze firmly on the ground to avoid the temptation that is Arthur - he can hear him, and it’s almost as if he can feel when he passes to stand behind him. Soft footsteps cease and then there’s the slick, almost squeaky sound of leather sliding against leather. A whip being uncoiled.

A heavy silence hangs over everything for a long moment and Merlin holds his breath.

The airy whistle of the whip swishing through the air catches his ears just a heartbeat before the lash catches his skin.

It’s a sting like nothing he’s ever felt. Like a line of fire, or a row of serket stings, licking across his shoulders and he lets out a gasp despite himself. The pain of it radiates down the whole of his back, and his skin judders from the wash of heat that follows.

He’s still trying to get his breath back when he hears that telltale whistle again, and he braces only just in time.

The second lash catches him across the center of his spine, and must cross over the first because there’s the bite of it and then a sharper burning afterward, like when he’s accidentally touched one of Gaius’ glass vessels that’s been sitting over an open flame.

He starts to pant softly, trying to keep control of his breathing, and trying desperately to keep from crying out.

The next lashes fall in rapid sequence. A third, then a fourth, then a fifth.

With each one he grunts out bursts of air, and the strikes come so fast he doesn’t have time to get his breath back to even let out a whimper.  A cold sweat springs up over his whole body and there’s a warm trickling wetness tickling oddly amidst the throbbing, undulating pain that sears the whole of his back.

His cheeks and eyes are wet, tears seeping through tightly squeezed lids and he thinks he put a tooth through his lip from biting down on the sixth and seventh blows. The eighth feels even stronger than the others; he can’t help but cry out then. There’s no controlling it now. The marks are crossing over each other; each time they hit is doubly worse than the sting of the initial strike.

On the ninth he lets out his loudest gasp yet and his forehead falls against the wood. There’s a pause and then fingers tangle tight in his hair, yanking his head up, forcing him to straighten to await the final lash. Something is muttered at him about ‘hold still, you’ but he doesn’t catch it all over the way sound of his pulse is ringing in his head.

He tries to lock that position, tries to ignore the horrendous burning all down his spine. He hears a low voiced, “Last one.” He braces again, sucks in air and opens his eyes to look up at Arthur. The sound that comes out of his mouth – a harsh, throaty groan – is issued a breath before the whip falls, and he almost doesn’t feel when it connects.

He’s too overcome by the anguish on Arthur’s face.

Sucking in air, Merlin grits his teeth, blinks away the tears and shakes his head. No, Arthur, he thinks desperately. Don’t let it show. Don’t let them see how much this is affecting you. Don’t _do_ anything! I can handle this.

It’s all non-verbal, communicated through the barest squinting of his eyes and the press of his lips and the firming of his jaw, but he wills Arthur to understand him.

He watches as Arthur draws a deep, steadying breath, sees his shoulders square and his chest expand – like he’s been holding his own breath this whole time.

But he _sees_ Merlin. And he gives a quick nod, one that’s little more than a tick, and it’s only then that Merlin lets his head fall forward again; he blows out a weary, hoarse sigh.

They can get through this.

He won’t break. For Arthur’s sake, no matter what.

“And that’s ten,” Egfrid’s voice rings out, sounding positively gleeful. “Now, let’s get that boy in the stocks.”

Merlin doesn’t protest or try to struggle in any way. There’s no strength or fight left in him as he’s bodily manipulated into position. Every single touch as they manhandle him is pure agony down his abraded back, and the guards seem to be taking no care in avoiding those areas that are raw and bloody. His wrists are laid over the grooves, and another fist in his hair guides his head forward so that his neck rests in its own shallow depression.

When the top arm of the stocks closes around him, he sighs and it’s half in relief because the guards step away and leave him to slump against the wooden support.

He’s positioned low enough that he can stay on his knees. Which is at least better than having to keep his feet under him, and the strain on his back isn’t as bad as it could be –though his neck is going to be in agony soon enough. At least the breeze is cool, and while it feels like claws being raked over raw flesh, it’s drying the blood and sweat that drip into the lash-lines like a sizzling acid.

Merlin doesn’t look up when Egfrid starts speaking again – well he really can’t without craning his neck to the side, which pulls hard on the skin of his back – though he does cant his head a bit to see if he can spy Arthur.  He’s actually pleased that when he brings him into view, Arthur is looking away from him. He doesn’t want Arthur to focus on him right now. Although he can’t blame him that he does.

“That concludes today’s business. We will return tomorrow for the administering of the remaining lashes.”

Merlin can see a flurry of motion as people clear the dais and begin to exit the yard, but he ignores them. He’s only got eyes for Arthur.

Arthur turns away, though something about the motion appears reluctant, and puts his back to Merlin when Egfrid comes up and claps a meaty hand on his shoulder. From the way Arthur’s posture stiffens and his shoulders roll back, as if to shrug off something distasteful, Egfrid _isn’t_ exchanging pleasantries. Egfrid slaps Arthur hard again and then moves off, and Merlin can hear his booming laughter.

“Stay strong, Arthur,” he mutters.

He knows Arthur couldn’t have heard him, because they’re much too far apart – a half-dozen yards between them and Merlin’s words were a whisper – but he turns back just then, just briefly. His eyes are narrow, his mouth pressed into a thin line. His expression is far too raw, but he gives another miniscule nod.

Merlin lifts his head up wearily – flashing a there-and-gone smile – before letting it drop back down, spent from the effort. It’s the best reassurance he can give Arthur right now. He doesn’t bother to keep watching as Egfrid and his retinue continue to parade out of the yard once Arthur is gone from view.

After a few minutes, there’s only silence to keep him company.

It’s difficult to contemplate that _this_ is what his next two days are going to be, but he’s less worried about himself than he is about Arthur. There are still so many opportunities – when Merlin can’t be there to help or protect him – for Egfrid to try to manipulate Arthur into betraying himself.

He can’t imagine how difficult this must be for Arthur. Watching someone he’s responsible for having to endure something like this would cause him such pain; he cares so much for his people. He knows that Arthur would feel this way about any of his subjects, though there’s a guilty part of him that actually hopes it’s because it’s him, Merlin, that makes it harder to endure. Which is a terrible, selfish thing to think, but Merlin’s mind is drifting and the pain is making him crave comfort of any sort, even if it’s the kind that would cause Arthur hurt.

The warmth of the day grows, the bright morning sun slow-roasting his neck and back and shoulders as it progresses across the sky overhead, and the skin of Merlin’s back goes tight and pinched from exposure. Every single shift and movement he makes pulls painfully. It becomes a constant low burning cut by sharp stabs of fire, and Merlin grows weary of weighing the need to move to try to ease stiffening muscles against the promise of fresh agony. More than once a too fast motion results in the sensation of tearing, followed by the hot trickle of moisture down his sides.

It becomes clear to Merlin, as the day wears on, that Egfrid’s reason for using the stocks as punishment this way – so different from how they’re utilized in Camelot, or anywhere else as far as Merlin’s heard – has another underlying purpose: isolation.

He’d already thought it strange that he wasn’t put on display in some public venue, but he’d expected at least that those in the keep would come by, or even stray townsfolk might make their way over to get a look at the prisoner. But over the past – well, Merlin’s not really sure how long it’s been, as he can’t quite follow the sun no matter how he twists his head around (though he suspects it’s mid-afternoon) not a single person has come by.

He knows there’s supposed to be a guard that will come to release him for his brief spate of freedom, and he’s heard people walking by, close enough to catch snatches of conversation. Other than that he’s been entirely alone and left exposed to the elements. There’s so very little to distract himself with, time passes sluggishly, and he knows that’s part of what makes this so awful a punishment.

While he’d been pleased at first to realize that he wouldn’t have to spend the whole of his time doubled over with his feet still flat on the ground, he hadn’t quite realized how quickly kneeling like this would become uncomfortable in its own right. Discomfort has rapidly developing into full blown pain, zinging through each limb and collecting in knots at the base of his spine, over the points of each shoulder, and especially his neck.

He’s tried holding his elbows up so that he’s not pulling at his already abraded wrists, but there’s only so long he can keep that up. Now they’re dangling loose, and each time they move – muscles twitching of their own accord – it drags the raw skin encircling his wrists against the wood. He’s sure there are at least twenty different, sharp stones beneath his knees that follow him no matter how he tries to shift from one side or the other to find softer ground.

His neck is the worst though, bent forward like it is. Not only does moving it in any way tug sharply on his whip-striped, sunbaked skin, but he can’t completely let his weight rest on his throat because it starts to choke him. The hole isn’t wide enough to allow him to push forward to take the press of the stock against his collar bones. And when he tries to draw back, so that the wood digs into his jaw instead of directly across his windpipe, the back of his neck rubs roughly up against the curved fitting of the top bar.

He’s going to come out of this chafed everywhere.

He can’t even think about the fact that he’s got to endure this for two days yet (to say nothing of that second round with the whip).  Merlin has definitely realized that the reason the standard punishment is five days of this, and twice the number of lashes is because no one is expected to _survive_ it. And if someone did manage to, they’d likely never consider feeding the poor ever again.

Or course, he’s got no plans to succumb to this. The only thing that’s keeping him going so far is the knowledge that he has to stay strong for Arthur. Because if Arthur comes out tomorrow and sees him weak and pitiful, he’s going to lose his temper. He’s going to do something that will probably get him killed.

The only good thing to come out of this is that Merlin assumes while Arthur is probably being verbally taunted over the situation at every turn, at least it’s not likely Egfrid will attempt any other methods of getting to him. He’s already got the perfect one.

Arthur’s refusal to refute any of Egfrid’s salacious allegations and his continued defense of Merlin acts in their favor in this case, because it means that Arthur and the rest of the men are safe.  And Arthur is – if not comfortable – then at least not a direct target for anything more nefarious.

Some time ago, Merlin had been reading one of Gaius’ old books on the Old Religion, one of the many that are stacked on shelves in plain view in his quarters that he always claimed were histories and pharmacopeias and bestiaries (and somehow were never discovered as the magical tomes they really are). Merlin doesn’t quite recall what he’d been searching for in the book. Perhaps some sort of spell to do with crops since it may have been at a time when there was a blight in one of the outer villages.

Whatever the purpose, he’d come across several chapters on focus and meditation, and how practitioners of the Old Religion used them to enhance their abilities and also to refresh and renew themselves after substantial magical expenditures. He’d thought it rather silly at the time, as using his own magic has never drained him to the same extent that it does to other sorcerers (at least according to Gaius).

Even so, he wishes he’d paid a little more attention to the advice in that book. Because if he were to be able to set aside thoughts of his physical presence and just focus on the feel of magical energy around him – let himself soak that up – it might make this whole experience easier to endure.

He just doesn’t know quite how to do that.  

Added to that, there’s a risk that if he were to succeed in healing himself of his very obvious wounds, he’d out himself as a sorcerer. Which would create a whole new slew of concerns for Arthur. Still, if he can do something to make the pain just a bit more bearable...

He’s tries to quiet his very turbulent mind and attempts a number of the simpler healing spells on himself. Nothing that should be too apparent if he’s able to make it work.

He’s been successful with various healing spells a number of times, on Arthur more than once, on the Knights, and on many others, but he’s never really been able to turn that magic in on himself. Gaius had said, when he’d asked about it once, that it had to do with the way that magic worked, the way it transferred energy from the user to the recipient, and how it was that transfer that created healing. And since Merlin is both source and recipient, he doesn’t know if it’s possible.

It doesn’t seem to be working for him now, at any rate.

At least the spells he’s tried so far have had little effect.

Maybe some of the stinging sharpness of the lash scores across his back has faded, though that might just be with time, not application of healing magic.

He adds that to the list of things he should really study up on more. As if there aren’t already so many. And of course, when is he supposed to find the time?

The late morning passes slowly into afternoon. He’s so attuned to every noise around him – desperate for some distraction – that the approaching footsteps catch his attention immediately. It’s difficult, but he twists his head to the side to see who’s approaching.

It’s another of Egfrid’s guards. Though, luckily not one of those who either arrested him and dragged him through the streets or attended his earlier castigation.

The guard unlocks the top stanchion of the pillory and opens it slowly. “No sudden moves now,” he cautions.

Merlin has to laugh. It’s a dry, weak chuckle, but it slips out nonetheless. “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” he rasps.

It aches just to lift his arms off the rests and let them fall to his sides. He lifts his head next, his neck creaking like an old man – which isn’t accurate, because when he uses the aging spell, he never feels close to this terrible. Straightening is the worst of all for the lines of fire that burn down from his nape to the small of his back. Each vertebrae rolling up means another sharp stab, like knives being jabbed into him over and over.

It takes all he’s got to stay in that kneeling sprawl and not just tip to the side and collapse.

“C’mon, up you go.” The guard sounds impatient, but he doesn’t try to haul Merlin to his feet, which Merlin is grateful for. He just stands above him while Merlin regains some sense of himself.

He slowly pushes each leg out, stretching thigh and calf muscles that feel worse than when he’s had to spend five days in the saddle. Somehow, he manages to lever himself upward, and when he gains his feet, he totters like an unsteady colt, barely able to keep control of his gangly legs. Still, he keeps his feet.

“C’mon,” the guard says. “You’ve a quarter of an hour. Don’t want to waste it.” Despite that admonishment, he doesn’t chivvy Merlin along at all, just stays about an arm’s length behind him. He escorts Merlin to a trench privy, and it’s another great relief to ease that discomfort as well.

Afterward he lets Merlin sit in the shade. Just letting his legs lay outstretched is a wonder and though he knows it’s not going to feel good when he moves away, he eases his back carefully against a low pile of rain-smoothed stones near the castle wall. It rubs and scrapes each raw line, stinging and splitting barely knitted skin anew, but it allows him to stretch out. Plus, the dank stone is cool and leeches some of that ever-present heat out of his back, which is surprisingly refreshing. Almost worth the pain. Almost.

Another person comes into the yard, and Merlin watches her cross over to the guard with interest. A servant – one of the kitchen staff by the looks of her – she’s carrying a pail as well as a bowl. He’s anxious for the water, but isn’t sure he can stomach more porridge, no matter how tasty it is.

The guard takes the items from her and they exchange a few quiet words. She hardly glances in his direction, but Merlin doesn’t imagine he’s pleasant to look at right now. As she departs, the guard brings over the bucket, sets it on the grass next to him and hands down the bowl.

“Eat up,” he instructs.

Merlin wants to protest. He hadn’t lost his breakfast during the whipping, but it was a near thing and he’s afraid of what more food will do to him.

The guard just gestures with the bowl, urging him to take it. “You’re gonna need your strength.”

Which is either an ominous thing to say or a kind reminder. Merlin’s not sure how to take it. He sits up a bit more, shifting gingerly against the fallen stones, and accepts the bowl with a small nod.

It’s not porridge, thankfully, but a soup of delicately scented golden broth mixed with a plethora of vegetables; which is much more palatable than anything too thick or stomach-lining. He sips at it carefully. Again he’s got no spoon, but he manages to pour it into his mouth without letting too much dribble down his chin.

It seems so strange that Egfrid’s offering him these concessions. Time out of the stocks, food, water… It’s slightly worrisome, though Merlin can’t put a finger on why. Then again, he also understands that it prolongs things for Arthur. Every moment Merlin is out here is a moment Arthur has to think about him _being_ out here. Plus, he probably wants Merlin conscious for tomorrow’s torture with the lash… It would be no fun for Egfrid at all if Merlin were passed out from privation.

He’s got no cup for the water, so he rinses the empty soup bowl with a swish, and then drinks from that. It’s soothing to his throat and parched tongue even more than the soup, and he wants to dunk his whole head in the bucket. He settles for letting some trickle over the top of his head and down his back, which brings a whole new kind of odd dichotomy of pain and pleasure.

He drinks a bit more, but stops himself getting too full. He’s got another few hours of confinement before he’ll get a chance to relieve himself, and he doesn’t want the added discomfort of a full bladder on top of everything else.

“Come on,” the guard says when Merlin reluctantly drops the bowl to splash into the bucket. “Let’s get you up.”

Merlin groans. He hadn’t realized the time had passed so quickly. But when he gets to his feet, cursing and hissing his pain the whole while, they don’t move towards the center of the yard.

The guard just says, “You’ll want to walk around. Trust me.”

Merlin looks over to see that there’s a shred of sympathy on the man’s face. “Thank you.”

It hurts to take those first trudging steps, but the guard is right that it loosens up the muscles in his legs and allows him to stretch his arms and shoulders and back even. He paces Merlin along the wall, letting him go at his own wobbling gait.

Merlin’s quite sure that more than just that quarter hour has passed by the time he completes a second full circuit of the yard, and he’s able to get one final drink of water once they stop.

“That’s your time.”

He doesn’t protest, just follows the guard over to the stocks dutifully. Despite the fact that this man is locking him up again, he’s been kind to Merlin and that’s a rare commodity amongst the guards he’s been exposed to.

It’s hell to drop to his knees again, and he has to catch himself on his hands when he lands harder than he means to. Just the act of putting his head and arms back into the rests sends twangs and twinges of pain throughout his entire body.

“Try and sleep if you can.” The guard advises. “It’s not so bad if you sleep.”

Merlin attempts to look up at him, but the guard closes the top bar over him, and sets it gently against his neck before he can. He certainly sounds like a man who’s had a similar experience, which might explain his sympathetic behavior.

There’s something else about his tone that suggests he’s not pleased about this punishment. Merlin’s not sure if he’s on Mella’s side, and he doesn’t want to put her in harm’s way by saying anything, but he can’t help wondering if this guard is one of those bent on defying Egfrid.

The lock sealing the two halves of the stock is snapped shut and the guard starts to walk away. “Thank you,” Merlin tells him softly.

There’s a pause in the receding footsteps, but no other words follow. Then they start again and eventually fade into silence.

And Merlin is alone again.

He tries to take the guard’s advice and let himself drift off, but it’s not very easy in the heat of the day with all the too close but still distant sounds of castle life going on around him. He’s sure exhaustion will take its toll eventually, but sleep is elusive now and not something he’s going to find easily.

He lets his thoughts wander instead. They drift into dangerous territory. He fantasizes about pulling all of his magic up from the pit of his stomach and bursting the stocks yard right apart, freeing himself in an epic flash of light and liberating destruction.

Merlin imagines summoning Kilgharrah and witnessing the dragon rain hellfire down on Egfrid and his kingdom. It's momentarily thrilling, but then Merlin remembers all of the innocent people who would suffer, and that is just what they're trying to avoid in preventing Egfrid’s war. Otherwise Merlin could simply magic the stock latch open and walk away, returning to his king and leaving this wretched land.  He pulls his mind away from those dark, if satisfying thoughts, and turns his focus to Arthur instead.

He hopes that Arthur’s staying strong. That he’s putting all thoughts of Merlin out of his head. He hopes that Egfrid isn’t being too cruel, though from what he knows of the man, that’s probably impossible, and he hopes that Arthur is enduring in spite of it.

Merlin focuses on that. On Arthur.

He puts an image of Arthur in his head. The way he looked last night, with the crown shining just a few shades deeper than his hair. The dark clothes complimenting the blood-bright cloak, a handsome contrast that made his skin so flush and healthy and his eyes so, so blue.

He even lets himself imagine what that moment in Arthur’s chamber could have led to. If he’d let his fingers linger on Arthur’s face after setting the crown on Arthur’s brow. If Arthur had stepped just half a pace forward to close that short distance between them…

He’s imagined, many a time, what Arthur’s lips would feel like against his. They always looks so soft and warm. He knows the feel of Arthur’s skin from countless situations; helping him dress, getting ready for the bath or a battle, caring for his wounds, but he has longed to feel it shiver under his welcome touch.

The thoughts play over and over in his mind. Repeating like some vision in an enchanted pool. Each time he’s a little more daring, and his touch a little more bold.

He changes the image. Instead thinking about after they’d come back from the feast. Arthur was so weary and vulnerable. What if Merlin had stayed in the room instead of shuffling off to his own when Arthur had instructed it? Offered him comfort, whatever that needed to be. If instead of just helping him off with his jacket, he’d moved to help with his belt and his tunic. Would Arthur have allowed him the familiarity? Would he have let Merlin put hands on his shoulders to ease the tension in the muscles there with strong strokes of his hands?

He’d have sat Arthur down, in a chair, or on the bed perhaps. No, he’d guide him to lie flat, stretched out, shirtless so that Merlin could kneel astride him. He’d push the heels of his hands into Arthur’s lower spine and sweep his palms over Arthur’s shoulder blades, and flex his fingers into the base of Arthur’s skull, just where the hair grows thick and soft.

Arthur would groan and cry out under his touch, and then at some point would raggedly tell Merlin to stop. And he would roll to his back, Merlin still straddling his hips, and stretch up that well-muscled torso to bring their mouths together…

The clatter of shod hooves ringing on stone snaps Merlin out of his reverie and he’s startled to realize that apparently a good amount of time has passed. The sun has crawled across the sky, the light going rosy and when he turns to look up at it, he sees there are pink limned clouds low along the horizon. The temperature has certainly gone down by degrees.

He wonders if he actually managed to successfully meditate?

Even as horribly uncomfortable as he is, a flush still manages to spring to his cheeks at the thought that thinking of Arthur like _that_ was what could finally relax his mind enough to fall into that state. He’s just lucky that his body is too much under duress to have reacted otherwise.

Wouldn’t that have looked strange to anyone who showed up; him stiff in his trousers while pinned in the stocks with jagged, angry lash lines crossing his back.

Although, now that he thinks on it, his neck and shoulders don’t feel quite as bad as they did earlier. Nor is the heat along his spine quite as fierce. Experimentally, he rolls a wrist and it feels like the wood doesn’t bite as sharply into his skin. He pushes an arm as far forward as he can, getting it almost up to an elbow before he can’t reach forward any further. He studies his wrist: it’s still red and raw, but the chafing is definitely less pronounced.

So apparently he’s also starting to work out how to heal himself. He sniffs with amusement. Now all he has to do is spend the next two days in a semi-conscious state, daydreaming about Arthur and apparently he’ll be just fine.

Of course when he tries to get back to that same place, his mind won’t stay focused on even an image of Arthur. It keeps flitting about from one thing to the next, never letting him settle. And every noise or breeze or random thought is a distraction.

He recites herbs in his head instead. Maybe he can’t get back to that meditative state, but he can pass the time with mindless recitation to keep at bay all the pain and the worries that start to overwhelm him the moment he stops thinking.

All of Gaius’ lessons run through his head. He starts alphabetically with Angelica, a root whose uses include the treatment of fever, plague and a number of other ailments. It’s best prepared by boiling, and then mashing the softened root to be added to a poultice or tonic, or distilling the cooking liquid down into a tincture.

He’s through to Horehound – the leaves used for cough and chest ailments, also proof against strong poison, most potent when ground into a paste in a mortar and pestle – by the time he hears footsteps approaching him again. He can’t tell if it's the same guard or not at first, because the man doesn’t say anything right away. It’s not until the lock is undone and the top board is lifted that he’s gently eased up, and given aid to move away from the stock that Merlin recognizes him as the same man.

He helps Merlin to lie down on his side.

“Just take your rest a minute,” the guard urges.

Merlin needs the privy again and is suddenly extremely conscious of how dry his throat feels. But lying on his side, rolled just a bit forward in care of his back, to let his body stretch out again is its own kind of bliss.

“Why?” he croaks out, but there’s no moisture left on his tongue for the words.

The guard shushes him. “None of that now.”

He waits a bit longer, trying to work out each of the achy and cramped muscles, bending his knees tight to hug them to his stomach and stretch out his back. While that pulls painfully at the slowly knitting skin over his wounds, it helps to ease some of the endless discomfort.

“Are you well enough to stand?”

Merlin nods. “I think so,” he manages to whisper.

He’s helped to his feet, and when he can’t quite stay upright and stumbles into the guard’s sturdy weight the guard just grunts and holds him there until he can finally steady himself and push away to stand on his own. All that while the guard is careful to keep his hands clear of Merlin’s back.

“Come on” the guard says, helping him along to the privy trench. When he’s done there, he’s led back to the keep wall, where he’d rested earlier in the day. The stone is cold now but Merlin doesn’t even care. It feels too good to just sit and let something support him other than his own body.

It’s the same serving girl who brings out Merlin’s evening meal and yet another bucket of water.

Merlin tries to give her a smile though his lips feel cracked.

Her cheeks dimple slightly when she returns it. She even gives a quick little courtesy after completing her delivery before turning and rushing off.

Merlin drinks first this time. It’s so hard not to gulp down enough water to fill his belly, but he knows that’ll just make him sick. He hasn’t been this thirsty since that whole debacle with the unicorn when desperation made even his own bathwater tolerable. This water is cold and mineral tasting and it bites at his throat on the way down. It clenches his gut, but when his initial thirst is slackened and he sets the bucket down, he can at least speak.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, reaching for the bowl that’s been set on the ground next to him. It’s a lumpy stew of some kind and it actually smells wonderful. “I don’t understand?”

The guard looks down at him, but he shakes his head.

The stew was probably hot when it came from the kitchen but distance has cooled it to the point that it doesn’t burn either his fingers or his tongue. It’s surprising how famished he is considering he’s done nothing all day, and this is heartier than the soup with actual chunks of meat along with the same variety of vegetables and a chewy barley all in a thin gravy. He’s grateful for that since it’ll have to sustain him during the night (and he has a sneaking suspicion that the healing he’d managed is why he’s so ravenous now).

“Your name. At least tell me your name,” he asks a few minutes later after having shoveled a few large scoops into his mouth (with fingers for lack of a spoon).

“Wulric,” the man mutters, once Merlin’s convinced himself he’s not going to answer and has a mouthful again.

He knows he likely won’t get any additional answers, so Merlin just swallows and says, “I appreciate your kindness, Wulric.”

He finishes the food and has some more water. Wulric once again urges him to get on his feet and get moving. He keeps pace with Merlin as he walks twice around the perimeter, staying closer than before. When he finally leads Merlin back over to the bare patch of earth and the waiting stocks Merlin can tell he’s reluctant to put him back in.

“It’s all right,” Merlin tells him. “I’ll be fine.”

And how strange is it that Merlin’s reassuring the guard responsible for locking him back up?

Apparently Wulric feels the same because he’s eyeing Merlin like he’s a madman. He gives the barest, softest huff of what might be amusement. Or derision, but Merlin’s going choose to believe it’s the former.

Wulric is gentle when he helps Merlin get back into position, and makes sure nothing pinches when he closes the top shut once again. “I won’t be able to come back any more tonight,” Wulric warns him quietly as he works to get the lock secured. “But I’ll be here in the morning. Try and get some sleep.”

It’s not very practical for Merlin to nod, but he tries. “Thank you, Wulric.” he says again. Because there’s really nothing else he can say.

Again, the sound of Wulric’s retreating footsteps is slow, with long pauses, and Merlin likes to imagine that he’s turning to look back at him in sympathy, though he can’t actually see if that’s happening.

Merlin must eventually doze off – reciting herbs again – because one minute he’s staring at the long shadow of the pillory as it stretches over the grass in front of him in the growing twilight, and the next all is dark and the air is crisp with a rising night mistral. He shifts, stretching muscles that have stiffened and seized in protest once again.

It’s probably a good thing, he realizes, that he managed to drift off for any time at all. But now he’s likely stuck awake for some time. Around him, all is silent. At least close by. From a distance he can still pick up the faint noises of the city, but even those are softer and infrequent.

He wonders how late it is. How long he’s been asleep.

He wonders how Arthur’s doing, most of all.

Once again, he tries to close his eyes and find some kind of relaxation, whether it’s sleep again or more of that meditation, but he’s just too groggy and disconnected from himself to find focus. And the pain is just too pronounced and hard to ignore. It’s a constant pulsing ache. He’d really like it if he could get back into that mindset that had started him healing, at least to provide himself a bit of comfort.

He also wishes that Wulfric had left the water. Well, not that he has a way to drink it. It’s just that his mouth is dry and his skin feels tight, his whole body feels parched, like the last rays of sun and heat from the day roasted the remaining of the moisture right out of him.

The night is cool, and his back must be reddened from sunburn as much as whip marks, because the breeze skating over it sends a chill through him, wracking his already weary body. If not natural sleep, then maybe he’ll pass out from the discomfort eventually, he thinks with a wry little sniffle.

He tries tensing up each muscle and then letting them ease again – a technique described to him by one of the knights (Gwaine he thinks, or maybe it was Arthur, teaching him how to stay still for long hours while on a hunt) – but that only serves to worsen the pain in those areas he can’t get relief. He honestly doesn’t know if the agony in his lower back is from the whipping or the kneeling for so long. Either way it’s an excruciating, non-stop throb.

The only thing that’s seems to consistently keep his mind occupied and distract him even a little bit from the endless pain is mind-numbing, silent recitation. So he starts back on the herbs once again. Where did he leave off? He remembers going over the external uses for mugwort (powerful in the treatment of women’s ailments), so he starts up again with mustard. Useful against gout and insect stings and thought to have properties that lend well to aphrodisiacs.

He makes it through another half-dozen plants before another sound catches his ear and throws off his concentration.

It sounds like footsteps, though they’re soft and furtive. Just the occasional rustle of stones and grass. He tries to twist his head to look around but can’t manage due to both the confines of the stocks and the limits of his own weakened muscles.

“Is someone there?” he calls out; well, it’s more like croaks out. That last sip of water seems like an age ago.

“Wulric? Is that you?”

“Shhhh,” there’s a low, sibilant hushing sound.

And Merlin wants to weep at hearing it. He _knows_ that breathy exhale.

“Arthur?” he asks plaintively, hating himself that he’s suddenly so weak and pathetic. He can’t be that way. Hasn’t he reminded himself over and over that he needs to stay strong for Arthur?

“Hush, Merlin,” Arthur says, finally coming close.

Merlin can see the black shape of Arthur’s boots against the dark of the grass. And then the boots move and Arthur is suddenly there, down on one knee so that he can get a look in Merlin’s eyes.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asks softly.

Merlin drinks in the sight of him; even in the darkness there’s enough light from the rising moon and glittering stars that Merlin can see Arthur’s wearing that damn blue cloak.

“You’ve snuck out, haven’t you?” he accuses, wincing when the words tear at his dry throat.

“Save your breath, Merlin,” Arthur grumbles, and he almost sounds angry but Merlin understands. “Here.” He brings out a water skin from under the cloak. “It was all I could manage.” He unstoppers it and carefully places the spout between Merlin’s lips. “I’ll go slowly.” He tips it up just a fraction.

Merlin sucks on the nozzle. The water is tepid and slightly brackish. It could very well be Arthur’s water skin from his saddle that hadn’t been refreshed since yesterday morning on the trail, but Merlin doesn’t care. It tastes wonderful, and it soothes the rawness in his throat and loosens the stickiness of his tongue. He drinks down more, not caring when Arthur squeezes a bit too hard and he chokes a bit and water drips off his chin.

“Sorry,” Arthur mutters.

Merlin flaps his hand. All is forgiven.

Arthur gently takes the vessel away after a few moments. “More?” he asks.

“No,” Merlin replies, voice much less rough than a moment ago. “No, I’m fine now. Thank you.”

“Sorry, Merlin.”

Merlin would shake his head, well, if he could. “Stop apologizing, Arthur. It’s not your fault.”

“It is though,” Arthur argues. “I should’ve found a way to get you out of this. I should never have let this happen.” He drops his chin and won’t meet Merlin’s eyes. “We should’ve left this accursed place as soon as we realized something was wrong.”

Merlin feels fingers come to rest on the side of his neck, pushing lightly into the hair behind his ear, and Arthur drops even lower, so that he’s looking up into Merlin’s eyes and Merlin doesn’t have to crane his neck up to see him. “I should’ve listened to you in the first place,” Arthur admits.

And though it’s hard to make out all the details of Arthur’s features, Merlin recognizes the anguish in his voice.

“No,” Merlin says. “No you were _right_ , Arthur. This was an opportunity you couldn’t miss out on. If I’d been wrong—“

“But you weren’t!” Arthur interrupts vehemently. “And, I didn’t listen.”

Merlin huffs out mock-irritably. “When do you ever listen to me, Arthur?” And he says it to be funny, but he can see the way Arthur’s face falls.

“Not nearly as often as I should, Merlin.”

Merlin is torn between hating this moment and relishing it. Because he doesn’t like to see Arthur brought low like this, doesn’t like to see him vulnerable. Arthur’s not a man comfortable with facing his feelings. And it’s almost too intimate for him to be speaking to Merlin like this. But at the same time, he’s wanted for so long for Arthur to open up to him, and bare himself, and for them to be truly honest with each other.

Of course he feels that same bitter pang he always does when he thinks about things like that. It’s just a reminder that he’ll never be truly honest with Arthur until he comes clean about the magic, so it’s especially unfair to ask that of Arthur. But now is definitely not the time for that. Arthur has a bit too much to worry about.

“It’s all right, Arthur. You do what is right and best for your kingdom and your people and I understand that. I don’t blame you for any of this.”

Arthur’s hand slides a bit further up his neck and his fingers curl gently at Merlin’s nape. To his surprise, he feels another hand touch his own, and Arthur’s fingers shift to interlock with his.

“You’re still my responsibility, Merlin, and I should never have let this happen. I’ll figure out a way to get you out of here. To end this early…”

“No, Arthur,” Merlin shakes his head. “They’re so close now he can feel the heat of Arthur’s breath blowing against his cheek. He squeezes Arthur’s hand, weakly but grateful to feel him there.

“Arthur, please, if you’ve ever trusted me with anything, please trust that I can endure this. It isn’t as bad as…” he can’t lie entirely. “It isn’t… Yes all right, it’s quite awful. But it’s nothing I won’t survive. There’s even a guard who’s sympathetic.”

Arthur cants his head and as the moonlight limns more of his features Merlin can see the wariness in them.

“I don’t know why, not for sure,” Merlin explains, hurrying to reassure him. “But, he’s been kind when he comes to let me out for my breaks. I thinks he’s’ been allowing me to stay out longer than he should and he’s been bringing me good food and plenty of water. He’s even let me walk around. I think he must be one of those who are aligned against Egfrid.” A thought strikes him. “Oh, I didn’t get to tell you about Mella. She’s the head cook. I think she’s one of the ringleaders of this underground rebellion. She came to bring me food in my cell last night and told me that her people are keeping an eye out for us and would help if they could. So, I think the guard is one of those people.”

Arthur looks suddenly relieved. “Ah, well that explains something.”

“What’s that?”

“There was a scrap of parchment on my dinner tray, hidden beneath a venison cutlet of all things. It said I’d be safe to come see you at this time. That the patrols would be otherwise occupied. It must’ve come from this Mella.”

Merlin smiles. “Definitely. She said she’d help.” He doesn’t add the fact that she’d cottoned onto Merlin’s strong feelings for Arthur and knew how much he’d need Arthur’s reassurance at a time like this.

“So this guard must be one of hers,” Merlin goes on. “He’s familiar with this punishment too, like he’s been subjected to it himself. His name is Wulric if you… Well.” Merlin shrugs and then realizes that’s a useless gesture since his shoulders are obscured from view. “I doubt you’d be able to speak with him but, it’s not as bad as it could be, Arthur. I’ve even managed to get some sleep through all this, and I trust I’ll sleep through the night. It’s mostly boredom, but that passes easily enough...” Alright, that’s a bit of an exaggeration but Arthur needs the reassurance.

“Merlin, it’s only been a day. I can’t … you can’t… How will you even survive another full day and night like this?”

“Well, you may have to tie me to my saddle when we ride back to Camelot,” he replies with a chuckle that’s probably not a good idea because it comes out a little jagged and it makes Arthur flinch at the sound of it.

“Merlin—“

“Arthur, no.” Merlin interrupts. “Just please have faith in me. Please.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but he stares thoughtfully at Merlin, looking deep into his eyes. His head falls forward then, forehead coming to rest softly against Merlin’s and they’re connected by three points of contact now – a possessive hand caressing his nape, their fingers entwined and Arthur’s face so close that their breath mingles and their noses almost brush. And Merlin thinks that if he could only stay like _this_ over the next two days he wouldn’t mind at all.

They remain like that for a very long time. Even then, it’s still too soon when Arthur pulls back just a bit. “I have to get back,” he says apologetically. “That Gerold won’t leave me be.” He cringes. “When I got up before coming here he heard me, and came out of that room. I thought he’d been asleep.”

Merlin bristles at the thought of Gerold staying in the room that should rightfully be his. It makes him physically queasy to think about.

“Does he know where you’ve gone?”

Arthur shakes his head and with their heads still touching it rocks Merlin’s head from side to side. “No, when he poked his head out I told him I was feeling a bit unwell and would likely be a while. He didn’t question it, although I’m sure he’ll report to Egfrid tomorrow that I was away from my room for some time tonight.”

‘You should be more careful, Arthur!” Merlin admonishes.

“Damn being careful, Merlin. I had to know that you were all right.”

Merlin can only squeeze Arthur’s fingers tighter. He pushes against Arthur’s forehead, pressing firmly. “I’m all right, Arthur.”

Slowly Arthur eases back, letting space between them once again. His fingers slacken in Merlin’s hair and as he draws his face and hand away his fingertips and the smooth curve of his palm slide slowly over Merlin’s cheek. The hand that’s threaded through Merlin’s is the last to let go, and Merlin clings to them to the very last touch of fingertip to fingertip.

He mourns the loss of that heat and comfort as soon as it’s gone. He swallows hard and urges hoarsely, “Go, Arthur. You need to get back.”

Arthur nods. “You’ll be okay, Merlin.” And it’s as much an order as a plea.

“I will, now go.”

Again Arthur nods, but he rolls back on his heels and rises slowly to his feet. Merlin watches as Arthur’s legs and feet slowly back from view, though he doesn’t turn away from Merlin until he’s across the entire square.

Merlin listens to soft, furtive footfalls until they too are gone from range and then he sighs heavily. “Now, where did I leave off?” he mutters to himself. “Right, Nettle.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief scene that includes a verbal threat of non-con. No actual non-con occurs.

It may be the emotional release from Arthur’s visit, or just that the misery of the whole long day is catching up with him, but sometime after getting to the ‘Rs’ in his herbal recitation, Merlin falls asleep.

It’s a restless sort of sleep; the kind that’s plagued by dark dreams of terrors both real and imagined (he jerks awake more than once, thinking the lash is going to fall), and it leaves him groggy and thick-headed when the sun finally breaches the dark horizon.

He shoulders have gone almost entirely numb, and though Merlin knows that’s definitely not a good thing, he’s pathetically grateful for any kind of surcease from the constant stream of painful input his body is giving him. Every joint crunches and creaks like it’s lined with sand, his muscles feel as though they’ve been constricted through the use of some kind of virulent poison, and his back is just one raw, exposed nerve that sings with pain at the barest whisper of a breeze.

Rolling his head against the stocks, Merlin tries to ease the worst kink in his neck, but all he succeeds in doing is rubbing into a raw spot left from the awkward way his head hung against the wood while he slept.

“Good, you’re awake.”

Merlin startles at the soft voice, his whole body jerking, which sends a wild surge of pain from the base of his skull to the tips of his toes. He looks off to the side, trying to see the speaker.

“Who’s there?” The words are a creaking whisper.

Wulric steps into view, holding his hands out apologetically. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’d not wanted to wake you, since I know how difficult it can be to get any sleep in that thing, but this visit isn’t exactly sanctioned.”

Something has certainly brought out Wulric’s chatty side, that’s for sure. Merlin tries to ask what he means, but his throat has gone dry again.

“No, don’t try to talk. Just, I’m going to help you out of there, but it’s going to hurt. Try to relax if you can.”

Merlin nods. He sees Wulric come towards him in his periphery and then tries not to flinch or move too much once Wulfric has the stocks opened and gets hands under both of Merlin’s armpits to lift him up. He whimpers, he can’t help it, as Wulric gets too close to the rawness of his back while easing him up and away from the stocks. Wulric hisses sympathetically and mutters words of apology when he drags Merlin away from the spread of dirt and then lays him gently down in the dewy grass.

“Sorry, I knew that wouldn’t be pleasant.”

Merlin manages to wave a forearm in a dismissive flap. “S’alright,” he husks out.

Wulric disappears from view for a moment, but then is back again with another pail of water. “Here, try to drink a little.” He scoops a hand in and lets some pour into Merlin’s mouth.

It’s too easy to just lay here and let this almost stranger care for him, and Merlin so badly wants to give in to just letting him, but he can’t. Not when he needs to be strong. He swallows down a few more mouthfuls but then pushes at Wulric’s hand the fourth time he goes to return it to the bucket. “’m okay.” He starts working at flexing his limbs and regaining control of himself. The feeling comes back in his shoulders and it’s all kinds of terrible pricking pins and jabbing needles sensation that feels like it goes on for hours.

“It’s good you can do that on your own,” Wulric says, sitting back on his heels, giving Merlin space to struggle to a more upright position.

Merlin waits until he’s got control of his limbs and then sort of half rolls up onto a hip and braces on an elbow.

“Not that I’m not grateful,” Merlin begins, feeling his way around what he wants to say, “but you’re much more talkative today. What changed?”

Wulric grins somewhat wearily. “I spoke with Mella. When I was assigned your relief duty by Egfrid’s Knight Captain I worried there might’ve been something funny about it.”

Merlin pushes up even further, getting his legs straightened out from their akimbo spread. “Funny how?”

“Well, Mella said she told you about those of us who’re looking to overthrow Egfrid?”

Merlin nods.

“We’re awful close to seeing that come to pass. But we’re more vulnerable than ever now. If Egfrid uncovers anything about we’ve got planned…” He trails off significantly.

It clicks in Merlin’s head then. “Oh! You thought I might’ve been a plant? Part of a scheme of Egfrid’s to gain your sympathy and maybe try to discover your secrets?”

“Exactly.” Wulric gives a firm nod. “Then Mella got word to me this morning that your plight is genuine and that Egfrid seems to be more focused on getting this war of his with your king than looking for trouble in his own house. Which is terrible for you and yours, no doubt, but truth be told it’s a boon for us.”

There’s one piece Merlin’s still not putting together. “But why would he put you out here with me, if not to try to learn what you might be hiding from him?”

That causes a frown to cross Wulric’s somewhat scruffy face. He’s gone least a few days without a shave. “I’ve not yet figured that out. Could be the Knight Captain just assigned me at random. Either that or Egfrid’s just havin’ a bit of fun at my expense.” The frown turns up into a rather self-deprecating grin. “You’ve already guessed that I did my own stint in this yard.”

Merlin returns the grin as best he can. Even his cheeks hurt. “Yeah, I assumed as much. But what for? Why would Egfrid want to punish one of his own guards so harshly? Did you give charity to a beggar as well?”

Wulric snorts derisively. “Nay, nothing like that. Although it’ll interest you to know that that law is new on the books. Quite a few new edicts rolled out about a week before your arrival. He’s been keen on entrapping that king of yours.”

“You’re joking?” Merlin feels a flush rush over the whole of him that has nothing to do with his sunburn or the pain. It’s a weird combination of fury and humiliation. It wasn’t just piss-poor luck on Merlin’s part. They’d been completely set-up!

“Nope, though I wish I was.” Wulric shakes his head. “Laws against charity, against ending a Knight’s challenge without killing your opponent, against dueling a woman, and a number of others. Egfrid took every rumour that’s ever reached him about your King Arthur and tried to find a way to use it against him.”

Quietly seething, Merlin tries to get back to the earlier part of their discussion. He doesn’t want to think about all the treachery that Egfrid’s brought to bear in efforts to see Arthur dead and Camelot in ruin. “So,” he manages after taking a few steadying breaths. “We were talking about you. About why you’d ended up in the stocks and under the lash.”

“Did Mella not tell you?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, I’ve only spoken to her just that once.”

“Oh, well, before Egfrid forced his way onto the throne, I was the rightful heir.”

Merlin can only blink at him for a moment. “You’re Lot’s heir?” he blurts out. That does not make any sort of sense. Wulric is genuinely kind and there’s something about him that reminds Merlin of Lancelot, a certain rugged nobility. Lot was a notorious monster as a ruler.

Wulric waggles a hand. “In a manner of speaking. Lot never named his successor, but my mother was Lot’s oldest sister of four. As all his brothers died childless, and Lot himself had no children, that left me and about six or seven cousins vying for it. But I am the eldest of the eldest of blood relation to him. Egfrid isn’t even related by blood, only through his father’s marriage to Lot’s youngest sister. But he was born to a peasant woman who died in childbirth.”

“How did he get away with that?”

“The Elder’s council vouched for his claim. Said he was eldest blood kin.”

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t follow. Why would they have done that?”

“Well he threatened the lot of them, didn’t he?” Wulric pauses and holds a hand down to Merlin. “It’d be good for you to be up. Let’s get you walking. I can explain just as easily while we move.”

Reluctantly Merlin complies. It’s torturous, but the worst of the pain sloughs away with each step he takes. Their pace is no faster than a snails at first, but Wulric seems content to amble close to Merlin – occasionally throwing out a steadying arm – and keeps telling his tale.

“Y’see, the rumours that Lot was suffering a malady of the mind were true. When things were just getting to their worst, when no one knew whether or not Lot would even be able to sit in his throne without screaming or cowering from those things only he could see, Egfrid shows up. And he’s the only one who can get Lot to calm, to act sensibly. He becomes Lot’s right hand. And then just when all seemed to be well again the madness returned. And depending on who you ask, Lot either walked off the battlement on his own, or Egfrid encouraged him at swordpoint.”

There’s something ominously familiar about the description of Lot’s malady. Egfrid’s never mentioned magic, and they know very well that Cenred supposedly didn’t truck with sorcerers, but had no problem aligning with Morgause. Lot’s view was never known to him, but suddenly Merlin has a sneaking suspicion that there’s sorcery at play here.

“However Egfrid managed all that, I suppose we’ll never know. What we _do_ know is that Egfrid threatened the families and children of several men on the council. They were forced to back his claim. I tried to speak against him, and that’s when he had me put out here. Four days and two-score lashes. If not for Mella and some other friendly souls I’d not have survived.” He chuffs out a dry laugh. “It’s only because our mothers are the closest of all Lot’s sisters that he’s not directly ordered my death. He likes to keep me close though, and that’s why I’m on his guard.”

What a convoluted mess!

The stiffness is slowly being worked out of Merlin’s body and his range of motion is definitely improved, though his stomach grumbles loudly.

“Come. I’ve brought you breakfast.” He leads Merlin over to the wall and retrieves a tray from where he’d left it sitting on the executioner’s block. It occurs to Merlin that the reason he chose the shadow of the castle as a resting place is because it keeps them hidden from view of anyone that might be looking out over the yard.

Breakfast is honeycakes slathered in butter and sharp cheese and more sausages. “Mella sent what she could. It should keep your belly full until later this afternoon.”

Merlin takes it gratefully. “Thank you, Wulric. And my thanks to Mella as well.” He bites into one of the sausages, which is especially delicious this morning and ends up gobbling the whole thing down in two more bites. “You know,” he tells Wulric around a mouthful of crumbly, sweet honeycake. “I think I may have some explanation as to what occurred with Lot. You said that a symptom of his madness was a fear of spirits or figures that no one else could see?”

Wulfric nods, looking very curious. “Aye, that was it. As if ghosts from his past were come back to torment him.”

Between bites of his meal, Merlin tells Wulric the whole sordid story behind Uther and the mandrake root (well, he glosses over his magic, of course).

“Gods be damned!” Wulric exclaims when Merlin’s done. “I think you may be on to something.” He lifts a finger, wagging it at Merlin. “You know, that Gerold was Lot’s valet before he was Egfrid’s. It wasn’t long after he arrived that Lot’s affliction first began.” He frowns. “You think that wormy little bastard is a sorcerer?”

Merlin shakes his head. “He may not have magic himself, but he could be working with someone who does.”

“But who?”

The last crumble of cheese drops from Merlin’s hand and he slaps himself on the forehead. “Of course. How could I have been so stupid?”

“What is it, lad?” Wulric asks in concern.

“Morgana Pendragon.” It all makes a sick sort of sense now that he thinks on it. Why else would Egfrid’s first desire as king be to start a war with Camelot. He may be convinced it’s to bolster his hold on the throne and to get access to the gold in the mines, but Merlin’s suddenly sure there’s another reason: because Morgana is behind his sudden rise to power.

Only unlike Morgause, Morgana isn’t whispering directly in Egfrid’s ear. That’s what Gerold is for. Whether he’s just a tool and a mouthpiece for her, or actually has some magic, Merlin doesn’t know. But what it means is that there’s absolutely _no way_ – no matter how well he and Arthur and the others restrain themselves over the next two days – that Egfrid is going to let them return to Camelot.

He realizes a bit belatedly that Wulric is saying his name and flicking water at him. “Oy, lad. You alright?”

Merlin gives a jerky nod. “Yes, I’m fine. Sorry.” He takes the bucket and washes down his breakfast. “It’s just that there’s quite a bit more going on here than I realized. I’m afraid it doesn’t look good for Arthur. I hate to ask this, but is there any way you, or Mella, could get a message to Arthur? I need him to come out to speak to me late tonight.”

Wulric nods. “Aye, we can manage that. Was kind of planning on it anyway.” He fishes into a pouch on his belt and pulls out a small jar. “Got a salve for those lash cuts. I can’t put it on you now, otherwise they’ll see it when they come for the next round, but I’ll bury it near the left post of the stock and you can have him retrieve it when he comes to you tonight.”

“Thank you, Wulric.” It occurs to him then that Wulric wouldn’t need to tell him this except, “You won’t be coming later, will you? To let me out for my breaks.”

“Nay,” Wulric shakes his head sadly. “I’ve been put back into rotation in Egfrid’s house guard. I don’t yet know who’ll be out here to relieve you, but if it’s one of Egfrid’s dogs, he won’t be kind. Just do what I’ve told you. Get up and move if you’re allowed. And be careful of what you eat. The kitchen girl will draw your water fresh and bring out the meal, but I’d not put it past Egfrid or any of his scoundrels to slip something into your bowl that might make you react poorly.” He pats Merlin on the shoulder gently. “I’ll get word to Mella. See if she can find a way to get that king of yours to bring some food with him as well.”

He stands then and holds a hand out to Merlin. “I’m afraid time grows short and I’ve got to be to my post. They’ll notice me missing soon.”

Reluctantly, Merlin let’s Wulric haul him to his feet. They walk to the stocks together and before he locks Merlin in, he buries the little jar of salve. Once he’s got Merlin secured, Wulric places a hand carefully on Merlin’s shoulder.

“You’ll get through this, lad,” he says with absolute surety. “I can tell that about you. It won’t be the easiest day you’ve ever faced and there may be times you feel like giving up, but I know you’ll make it through. Your King Arthur risks his very neck to see to you, and I suspect that you’d do more than the same for him. You’ve got a reason to keep going, remember that.”

Merlin can’t really hide the flush that crawls across his chest and up his neck to stain his cheeks. Does the entire kingdom know about his feelings for Arthur? Trying to ignore that aspect of Wulric’s words, Merlin gives an aborted nod. “My thanks to you, Wulric. Know that when you regain your rightful throne and rule over Essetir, Camelot will be proud to call you friend.”

Wulric squeezes Merlin’s shoulder lightly. “That’s much appreciated. And I look forward to that day. I hope we’re able to cross paths again before you leave here, but if not, luck go with you, Merlin, lad.”

“You as well, Wulric.”

He doesn’t watch Wulric leave, and instead spends the next little while mulling over everything he’s learned. He’s quite certain that he’s right about Morgana. They’ve heard very little of her in the last couple of years, and it’s been rumoured that she was imprisoned for some time by the Sarrum of Amata, but Merlin knows she’ll never give up on plotting Camelot’s demise. And this whole scheme with Egfrid seems like something she’d orchestrate.

The morning has brightened and perhaps an hour or more has passed when people start arriving in the yard. Merlin keeps his head down, he doesn’t think it will do well for him to look unexpectedly alert, but he does peek up every now and then, looking for Arthur.

Egfrid’s booming laugh precedes him, and when Merlin angles his head to watch the king enter the yard he sees that Arthur is walking with him. If anything, Arthur looks even worse than yesterday. His pallor is grey and his hair lank and dull. He carries himself with a rigidity that tells Merlin that he’s under siege from Egfrid’s cruel taunting.

Arthur looks over at him only briefly and his whole demeanor seems to soften, almost imperceptibly, when he sees Merlin looking back at him.

Merlin feels exactly the same.

To Merlin’s surprise more familiar faces trail after both kings. Though Merlin’s not sure why, Gwaine, Percival, Elyan and three more knights of Camelot take up positions on the dais. They’re speaking quietly and Merlin can tell that they’ve not yet realized that it’s him on display before them.

Percival notices it first, and he elbows Gwaine to his left and Elyan to his right even as his jaw drops. Elyan shakes his head in disbelief and his fists clench at his sides, but Gwaine rocks back like he’s been struck a blow. His hand falls to his hip, going for his sword and it’s only Percival’s quick, restraining grip around his wrist that stops him drawing a weapon.

And suddenly the reason that some of Camelot’s knights are in attendance becomes perfectly clear. If Egfrid can’t get _Arthur_ react the way he wants to, he’ll try to get one of his men to do it for him.

Merlin wants to shoot Gwaine and the others a quick smile or a wave or something to reassure them that he’s okay, but too many eyes are on him, so he’s unable to give them even some small token. He can only hope that Arthur spoke with them prior to their coming out here. What they really don’t need is Gwaine – hothead that he is – charging the man with the lash, or something worse.

Percival and Elyan will hopefully keep him in check. Hopefully.

Egfrid doesn’t stand on much ceremony this second day. Once everyone has filed into place around the dais he merely raises a hand to call for silence and says, “Today marks the second day of sentence execution for Merlin of Camelot. A half-score of lashes to be applied and he shall then stand in the stocks until this same time tomorrow.” He lets his hand fall, chopping it down like an axe and Merlin sees the two guards who arrested him as well as a guard carrying a whip head his way.

It doesn’t look like the same man as yesterday.

The two guards get him out of the stocks, taking no care whatsoever with either his strained limbs or his tender back. The haul him up roughly and get him on his feet. Unlike yesterday, when he was kneeling, he’s made to stand with his legs slightly parted, body slanted forward and arms braced on either side of the stocks. His arms can barely hold his weight and start to shake with the effort the moment the guards let go of him.

“You stay on your feet, boy,” one of the guards growls threateningly at him.

He doesn’t want to know what might happen if he doesn’t.

Merlin discovers he was right that it’s not the same man with the whip as yesterday. This one is _nowhere near_ as skilled with the thing. At the first strike, which slaps low across his spine not even hard enough to break skin, he starts to think that might be a blessing.

When the second strike lands he realizes it’s a curse, because apparently the guard wielding the whip is trying to make up for what he lacks in finesse with pure brute strength.

The blow catches him on his side, over his ribs, the straw-thin leather of the whip end even curling around to catch at his stomach. He flinches to the side, unable to stop himself, and nearly topples.

“Don’t you move,” one of the other guards warns.

Merlin tries to stay still, but the third lash is a brutal score across his left shoulder and Merlin is sure that flesh has been flayed away. Tears spring to his eyes immediately and a high yelp slips out. His wobbling left arm gives way and he falls heavily into the frame of the stocks.

The guards are on him immediately, cursing him and yanking him upright. “We’ll tie you to this, boy. Don’t think we won’t,” one of them threatens.

Merlin tries to assure them he won’t move, but all that comes out is a wet, phlegmy sob. He nods instead.

There’s a grunt in response and he’s left standing alone again.

The next two strikes may be just as strong as the last, but the aim is off, so one lands half over his right buttock and is partially muffled by his low slung trousers. The other licks across the back of an arm before hitting a shoulder blade and loses momentum. Still, they sting fiercely and he knows he’s been sliced open along the arm.

He risks a glance at the dais. He hadn’t wanted to look, but he has to know how they’re all facing this. He knows he’s already reacted more than he’d wanted to… let out sounds and sniffles that must be audible even across the space between the stocks and the raised platform.

His friends, to a man – even the newest Camelot knight, Dwennon, that Merlin only knows in passing – are all pale and horrified. Percival has a hold of Gwaine’s forearm, but to Merlin’s surprise Elyan also has a grip on Percival’s tunic (though he can’t tell if it’s to hold Percival back, or to keep himself from rushing to intervene…perhaps both).

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to look. Their concern, their naked agony on his behalf puts a lump in Merlin’s throat.

He lets his gaze shift, and if feels like an age passes before it finally lands where he wants it… no _needs_ it to.

Arthur stands unmoved. He’s still as stone, his face a carved-granite mask.

 _There_ is the strength Merlin needs to endure this. He looks into Arthur’s eyes, and despite the distance between them he knows the moment they connect. He feels it like a lightning bolt (or maybe that’s the next lash coming down to cross over the many ragged lines already cut into his back). Still, there’s a link between them that he imagines he can see like a line of coruscating energy, flickering and flaring even under the sun.

He knows his face is a ruddy, snotty mess, but he swallows down the rest of the tears and takes a deep breath. He can endure this.

It’s as if he can see the blows coming from the way Arthur moves; each minute reaction – that Merlin can read only because he knows Arthur so, so well – allows him to brace, to hold his breath and let it out in a sharp exhale only when the tip of the braided leather line cuts into him. It still hurts like all kinds of hell, and he can’t bite down on every noise, but he’s able to ride it out… to channel his efforts into staying upright and not bowing under the horrible weight of it all.

The fact that he’s not down on his knees, collapsed into the dirt seems only to spur his abuser on. The final blows of the whip are brutal, with no finesse and just brute force. The very last one catches so deep into his skin that it says there, embedded, instead of falling away. He cries out, agonized, when the guard tugs it cruelly from his flesh.

Still, he’s standing. And Arthur is looking only at him. And the whole world could fall away for all Merlin cares.

Too soon the guards are back at his sides, dragging him down to his knees and forcing him back into the awful position for his return to the stocks. The slam of the cross bar over him catches skin on his neck and a wrist, pinching cruelly. The guards – all three of them – are laughing over the whip-wielder’s handiwork, and they’re not being quiet about it.

Ignoring them, Merlin twists his neck to get eyes on the dais again.

Amidst the bodies exiting the yard, talking and already forgetting what they’ve just witnessed, is a huddle of all of the knights in Camelot red, who look to be holding each other back. It might even appear comical if not for the fact that not one among them doesn’t look flinty-eyed with fury. Some of Egfrid’s personal guard are stopping just a few feet away, and watching them expectantly.

Luckily, before any sort of chaos can break out, Arthur steps up and while Merlin can’t hear his words, he can tell from the flat line of his mouth and the heavy-browed expression that he’s just snapped off an order. The men nod at whatever he says but they’re all slow-footed and reluctant when they begin to turn away and start towards the exit. Gwaine in particular keeps throwing glances over his shoulder at Merlin, like he can’t believe he’s letting himself be corralled out of there without rescuing him.

Merlin _has_ to give him _something_ he can take away, to make him feel less miserable for leaving, and despite it being risky Merlin, squeezes one eye shut in an exaggerated wink. Gwaine gives a little startle when he sees it, and then bows his head like Merlin’s just issued him some kind of command. He flashes a quick little smirk in return and then shuffles off behind the others.

Merlin sees him rush up to get between Percival and Elyan, talking in their ears, and he hopes Gwaine is sharing that little bit of reassurance. He doesn’t want any of his friends to worry.

Arthur isn’t following them. Not yet. He’s standing off to one side, apparently waiting on Egfrid – who is still sitting in his makeshift throne, having an apparently delightful conversation with Gerold, if their smiling faces are to be believed.

In spite of all the horrendous pain that’s making Merlin’s body feel like he’s been chewed up and spit out by a dragon, Merlin feels the worst for Arthur. He looks miserable and heartsick whenever he isn’t under the watchful eyes of Egfrid or his valet. He’s got his back to them now and he’s flicking pained glances Merlin’s way and with every one his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out.

For a moment Merlin lets himself drift into that fantasy: Arthur being unable to watch any longer, giving in to the need to rescue him, ignoring Egfrid and Gerold’s shrieks of protest, perhaps even throwing off an arm that tries to stop him. He’d just come striding across the greensward, knocking aside the guards with the flat of his sword, and then he’d bring the shining blade smashing down on the lock so it could never be properly closed again. He’d gather Merlin up in his arms with such care and find the gentlest way to carry him out of there and away from this accursed kingdom.

They’d ride back to Camelot, together…

Merlin blinks like a dreamer coming awake and it takes a moment for reality to reassert itself. It’s apparent that the pain must be getting to him, because for a moment he was completely sure everything he just imagined had actually come to pass.

Great. He’s hallucinating.

He gives a curt little shake of his head to clear it and when he focuses again he sees that Egfrid is now leading his passel of personal guards and remaining retinue out of the yard. Arthur follows after like a man marching to his death. He’s the last one to quit the field and he stops just at the stone egress and looks back at Merlin with a small, but intimate frown. It says, ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Please be okay’ and probably several other more obscure things as well (Merlin will chose to read it that way at least).

Because there’s no one else left to witness it, Merlin counters that grim, unhappy expression with a weary smile. It pulls at his cheeks, the skin tight with drying tears, and it may not make it entirely to his eyes, but he can’t let the parting ‘word’ he shares with Arthur be entirely hopeless.

Once Arthur disappears and he’s alone again in the courtyard, Merlin slumps wearily in his bonds. He nearly chokes himself – and very likely does bruise his throat – from the way the curving wood presses up into his neck. Calling himself all kinds of idiot – it’s not as if he doesn’t have plenty of other pains to worry about – he adjusts so that the smooth grained board puts a divot in his jaw instead. It’s no more comfortable, but he can probably pass out and still keep breathing.

Of course, despite the absolute agony coursing through him, it’s just on the edge of being enough pain to push him to unconsciousness. It’s an odd position to be in: wishing for just a little more misery.

Desperate for some relief from the unceasing pain, he tries to meditate again. He’d reached that state yesterday by losing himself in thoughts of Arthur, and it’s no hardship to focus on more of the same.

He finds that while he can start to drop into a disconnected sort of grey haze, the bouts are only short-lived and he has to concentrate to get back there once reality reasserts itself.

The whole of the morning passes with Merlin drifting in and out of that sort of half-consciousness; never quite asleep, but not wholly aware either. There’s an ebb and tide to the way he flows in-and-out of that dreamlike state, and the scenes and images that play out in his minds-eye are varied and complex. Though they all share a common focal point: Arthur.

Unfortunately, he’s rather lost in a vivid daydream about Arthur standing before him shirtless, tearing his tunic into strips to bind Merlin’s wounds, when he’s startled abruptly out of it by a splash of icy water. He blinks, sputtering which turns into a keen of misery as the water washes down the film of dried sweat-salt and blood over his shoulders and back, stinging each lash line like a fresh knife-slash.

“Thought that’d wake ya!” The voice is cruel and thick, and it’s followed by a high, squealing laugh.

Merlin recognizes the man by the laugh: one of the guards who’d arrested him. The one with the rotten teeth and notched ear. His stomach clenches and his heart sinks. He hadn’t been expecting to be lucky enough to end up with a minder quite as compassionate as Wulric, but he’d hoped for indifference at the very worst. Someone who might follow the instructions to the bare minimum, but who’d at least follow them.

“How ‘bout another drink, then?” the guard says, and jerks the bucket toward him again; another gout of water hits him full in the face.

He manages to close his eyes to it, but it gets up his nose and the shock of it makes him gasp and he chokes and coughs.

The guard leans down just enough that Merlin can see him through dripping lashes. He leers, licking his lips. “Yer just lucky King Egfrid don’t want you too roughed-up, else me and my friends would be in here to have our own bit of fun with ya.”

The shudder that runs the length of Merlin’s spine has nothing to do with pain. He can’t… he absolutely can’t think about what that might mean.

“Now,” the guard continues, miming heavy thought. “Seein’ as how ya got well more than your fair share of freedom yesterday from that soft-hearted fool, Wulric, I ain’t sure you deserve your time today.”

Damn. He should’ve known there’d be a price to pay for Wulric’s kindness. And he should’ve realized his excess freedom wouldn’t go unnoticed by Egfrid. He can only hope Wulric’s not suffering for it as well.

“Or,”–the guard goes on, like he’s heavily weighing options–“I could let ya out of there, like I’m s’pposed to.”

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut. There’s no good outcome here… no relief of any kind waiting for him.

“And if ya want me to, I will.”

Merlin waits for the catch.

The guard’s voice goes low and suggestive. “But you ain’t got the strength to get back to your feet, and I’d have to _help_ ya back up, wouldn’t I?”

It’s impossible not to cringe from that. His reaction only makes the guard laugh again in that wicked pig-squeal.

“Why don’t we see what you decide?”

Merlin hears him come close and grunts out a pained breath when the guard pushes into him – rough leathers scratching against Merlin’s tender skin –  while he works at the latch of the stocks. The top bar lifts off of him, but despite his freedom and the loss of some of his support, Merlin fights to stay kneeling there. He can’t fathom the thought of letting this abhorrent man put hands on him.

The guard walks around him, chortling and making snide comments about how nice it is to stretch his legs and wouldn’t a stroll around the yard be nice.

Merlin does his best to ignore him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been relying on letting the sturdiness of the stocks support him. It’s a struggle to keep upright and not collapse under the weight of his own exhaustion.

It’s disheartening also, to face that there’ll be no water, no food and no ease from the horrible strain on his back and knees and shoulders, but Merlin would rather suffer the pain he knows, than incur any of this man’s idea of special torture.

Fortunately the guard seems to tire of taunting Merlin after only a little while (clearly nowhere near the quarter of an hour he was to be allotted). He grumbles, “Yer damn lucky, boy,” when he returns to slam the stocks closed again.

Merlin collapses wearily against the wood, letting the arm holes catch hard against the heels of his hand and balls of his thumb, while his elbows flop down as far as the hold will allow. It eases just a bit of the strain on his shoulders no matter how much it bites into his wrists.

“Suppose I’d better leave this for ya, eh?” the guard asks, sloshing the water bucket around tauntingly. He sets it near the post of the stocks – maddeningly out of reach – and then kicks it over mock-accidentally. “Whoops. Guess you really didn’t need that water anyway, did ya?”

Though he’s not looking up at the guard, or even trying to watch him at all, Merlin can almost feel the weight of the man’s stare. If he’s expecting Merlin to respond to this latest petty cruelty, he’s in for disappointment.

Apparently this isn’t what the guard’s after, because when Merlin doesn’t react he kicks the post hard with the flat of his boot. The shock of it vibrates through the wood and Merlin instinctively goes tense again, which shoots hot flares of pain through every part of him. A low gasp slips out and he moans low, from deep in his chest.

“You’d better just hope the king has better things for me ta do this evenin’ than relieving your sorry self, else I won’t be near as pleasant later on.” He gives one more good kick and then departs with that awful laugh trailing after him.

Merlin fervently hopes Egfrid finds something better for the man to do as well. And, pleasant? Merlin nearly scoffs aloud, but he refrains from showing any outward reaction until the guard’s long gone – footsteps echoing to silence in the distance. Of course by then, the only reaction he’s capable of is to crumple weakly against the stocks.

It’s hard to think of Arthur after that for some reason. Bad enough to deal with the pain and humiliation of the torture itself, but the added indignity of such abusive treatment, coupled with the very real fear that it could be much, much worse, puts him in a dark frame of mind. It’s easier instead to think about his magic, and all the things he could bring to bear against these horrible people who’ve treated him so cruelly.

Though Merlin’s had to use his magic in unpleasant ways in the past, he’s never been capricious or cruel about that fact and he’s never taken joy in it. Even the worst of those he’s killed – Sofia and her father, the Witchfinder, Agravaine… only a small few of the people who’ve met their end at his hand – had left him conflicted about wielding his gifts in such a dark way. Perhaps he’d celebrated the outcome, since it generally meant that Arthur was alive and well, but the actual act of taking a life was one he never gloried in.

Giving his magic free rein here, Merlin knows, might be an exception. He doesn’t think he would feel one iota of guilt or self-doubt seeing that guard, or Gerold or especially Egfrid writhing at his feet.

He’s never really envied Morgana and the darkness she’s learned to channel through the Old Religion. He’d always thought that magic was only as good or as evil as its user, and that it is her own petty jealousy and hate that’s led her astray, but at this very moment he wishes he shared her dispassion and her capacity for cruelty without fear of the aftermath.

For a moment – perhaps too long a one – he feels a surge of anger… maybe even resentment, toward Arthur. All of the worst experiences of his life center around that man, and because they’re ‘two sides of a coin’, fated and connected, he can never walk away. It hurts, so very much that he will never be known to Arthur for who he really is. He doesn’t even care if Arthur ever knows all the things he’s done over the years, but he wishes Arthur knew what he’s _willing_ to do for him. The lengths he’s willing to go to keep him safe and happy. He wishes Arthur knew how much he truly cares.

Those thoughts don’t linger long - too overshadowed by guilt and the deeper truth of his feelings.

Because _that_ truth is that it stopped being about destiny and fate a long time ago, and simply became about the man: about Arthur.

Merlin can’t help but sigh. It’s both resigned and a little self-mocking. Everything always comes back around to Arthur. For some reason, this time when he starts to let his mind go hazy with thoughts of Arthur – a favorite daydream: what it might be like if Arthur knew the truth and didn’t hate him for it – he can feel his magic start to respond. There’s a spot of warmth that blooms in his chest and a slight tingle in the tips of his fingers.

He concentrates on that feeble ball of heat within him, lets it slowly and painstakingly expand and subsume him until he feels awash in it, like being submerged in a warm bath. Carefully he shifts his focus to the aches and pains in his body, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the faint – nearly indiscernible – changes to that pain. Does his neck ache just that tiny fraction less? Is the burning across his back perhaps a degree cooler? Is it because he wants to believe it that the throbbing in his shoulders is pulsing a trifle slower?

It’s the sharp pang in his stomach – a rumble of hunger – that shocks Merlin out of what he assumes was a healing trance. He knows magic takes energy and as much of his own resources as he was pulling out of his own body, that energy had to come from somewhere. Apparently he’s used what precious little reserves he had.

Exhaustion, a full-body weariness as if he’s been drained of his own life force, overtakes him, dragging him into fitful sleep.

He comes awake at the sensation of ice forming around his wrists. Blinking slowly awake, Merlin tries to move his hands, and it takes him a moment to realize that the chill and weight pulling at them are manacles.

“Wha?” he mutters through a mouth as dry as cotton batting.

Before he can parse what’s going on, he feels the sensation of the stocks being opened. “You’ve got a quarter hour’s liberty.”

Several hours must’ve passed. A small blessing that he managed to sleep through the afternoon.

And it’s a different guard at least.

Merlin watches him warily through sleep-crusted eyes as he walks away from Merlin and sits down on the edge of the hangman’s block. He crosses his arms and kicks his feet out in front of him. Clearly he’s got no intention of _helping_ Merlin, but at least he’s not reveling in being cruel to him either. The manacles are laughably unnecessary, but Merlin knows there’s no use arguing the point.

Too weak to do little more than fall over to his side, Merlin manages to slip out of the cradle of the stocks and collapses on the ground with a painful explosion of breath. His vision goes black and everything spins. If there were anything left in his gut, Merlin knows he’d be expelling onto the dirt. Still, his stomach churns and there’s a fiery burn of bile up his throat.

Merlin blinks away tears and grime and once his vision goes hazy instead of murky he sees that there’s another bucket of water – this one blissfully upright – standing just a yard or two away. There’s also a hard-crusted heel of bread next to it. Of course, as weak as he is, that yard might as well be a league.

Steeling himself for the pain, he slides one arm along the ground as far as he can. The weight of the dragging chain makes even that motion feel like he’s wading through treacle. He pushes the other arm forward and tries to drag his body after him. It’s no good. His shoulders and arms are just too weak. His knees feel as though they’ve been ground for sausage and driving them into the ground to lever himself forward is agony. But he pushes on. He makes a few inches at first, then an arm’s length.

By the time he gets to the damn bucket he’s going to be out of time to drink from it. But Merlin doesn’t call for help that he’s knows won’t be coming.

He manages that slow, aggregate motion until finally the both the bread and bucket are within reach. The water is his first goal. He’s careful to reach out with both hands, fingertips catching at the bucket’s base, and he shimmies it through the dirt towards him. The last thing he wants to do is tip it before he gets it close.

He tries to lever himself to his elbows, so that he can get his mouth near the lip of the bucket, but it’s no use. He _is_ able to lift an arm up and scoop it into the water though, and he manages to dribble a few cupped palms into his mouth.

When his mouth is only sticky instead of parched, Merlin reaches for the bread. He tears off a piece in his teeth, but it’s so chewy and dry he can barely choke it down. He rips another chunk away and lifts it to the water, soaking it thoroughly. The result is sodden and kind of slimy but takes almost no effort to chew and swallow and he can suck the moisture out of it as well. He concentrates on finishing the bread. He’ll need the energy if he’s going to continue to try healing himself.

Merlin’s not sure if he succeeds in getting it all down in his limited amount of time, or if the guard just doesn’t care about the actual time, but it’s not until he’s finished the bread that he hears the guard get to his feet. Merllin manages to tip the bucket forward so that a thin rivulet of water trickles out and he laps at it with his last few moments of freedom.

“That’s enough, you,” the guard says. He lifts the bucket away and then comes back and grabs Merlin roughly by the arm. He’s not gentle when he hauls Merlin back the few feet to get him into position by the stocks, but at least he’s not deliberately malicious either. He gets Merlin’s arms over and braced into place and then pushes his head down. Merlin’s body is so accustomed to this position that when his stiff muscles shift and settle, it almost feels better than moving freely.

The guard doesn’t slam the top crossbar closed, just eases it shut and then latches it in place. He doesn’t break his taciturn silence either, when he picks up the bucket and heads out of the yard. It isn’t until he’s long gone that Merlin realizes he’s still got the iron cuffs around his wrists.

Damn, he should’ve asked to have those taken off. Not that it’s likely the guard would’ve listened. He may not have been cruel like the other one, but he wasn’t at all compassionate either. It’s just one more indignity on top of everything else he’s suffering.

His belly sloshing with the weight of the water and bread, Merlin shifts his knees and tries to get… well, not comfortable, but the least uncomfortable he can manage. The late evening air is at least getting cool, and there’s a fairly steady breeze, though the clouds Merlin saw scudding across the sky when he was lying on the dirt had an ominous, rain-bringing look to them. It might be a wet night.

Since it worked earlier, Merlin tries to find that warmth within himself that he knows is the heart of his magic.

To his immense relief it comes much easier this time.

He concentrates on it, and lets it wash over him again. He finds that it grows warmer, almost hot in his fingers and toes, when he thinks on Arthur at the same time. While he’s starting to understand that any significant healing will take more time – and definitely sustenance – than he’s got available to him right now, at least he’s able to ease some of the worst of it.

His pain remains a constant, but the immediacy of it eases somewhat. It feels less like raw, new wounds and more the tightness and pull of knitting flesh, and even the occasional itch, that comes a day or two after.

Merlin drifts in and out of that healing state through the evening and into night. Slipping between a dreamy sort of wakefulness in which he floats in that bathwater warmth sensation, and a drowsy lassitude brought on by the way his use of that energy drains him. Around him the sky slowly darkens and the breeze picks up, carrying a chill, but he notices very little of it.

Caught up as he is, it’s a very long time after he spies a cloaked figure in his periphery, coming across the yard towards him that Merlin thinks he’s still dreaming. It’s been one of his many, many fantasies: Arthur coming to him, cloaked and mysterious like some dashing hero out of children’s tale.

So, it’s not until he hears Arthur calling out, “Merlin? Merlin, are you awake?” that Merlin finally comes alert and realizes that it actually _is_ Arthur.

Merlin blinks back into full awareness to see that it must be quite late if the angle of the moon peeking out behind the clouds is anything to go on. “Arthur?” he calls out weakly.

Whether it’s the plaintiveness of the tone, or just the fact that he knows Merlin’s awake, Arthur abandons any pretense of stealth and hurries out of the shadows near the edge of the wall and crosses the yard. Like the night before he drops low to his knees so that Merlin doesn’t have to crane his neck. Arthur looks up and shakes his head, eyes wide with regret. “Oh, Merlin.” He stares for a quiet moment and then asks, “Are you all right?”

Merlin tries to nod but it isn’t easy. He does manage a soft smile though, because he hadn’t realized just how badly he needed Arthur to ask him that. “I’ll live,” he croaks.

Again, just like the previous night, Arthur draws a water skin out from under the cloak. “I brought you more water. Fresh this time,” he adds with a half-hearted chuckle. “I stopped at the well on the way here.”

Grateful, Merlin tries to wheeze out a, “Thank you,” before Arthur sets it to his lips. Everything he’d had earlier seems to have been sapped up by the healing magic. His stomach once again feels hollow and empty and it clenches sharply at the first swallow of cold water. He groans and lets the water trickle from slack lips for a moment, too overcome by the pangs in his belly to keep drinking.

Arthur pulls the skin away, asking an alarmed, “Are you okay?” He sounds rather frantic.

“Sorry,” Merlin mutters. “Too much,” he explains slowly. “Cold. Hurts.” He’s having trouble forming sentences. “’m okay.”

“Sorry, just... sorry,.” Arthur replies. “Take your time. You don’t have to drink it all down at once.” He holds the waterskin back up, but hesitates. “Are you ready? Do you want more?”

Merlin nods. “Please.”

Gently, Arthur feeds the spout between his lips again and squeezes lightly on the bag. “Easy,” he cautions, voice soothing, like he’s calming a fractious mount.

Merlin manages a few more swallows. Arthur notices immediately when he stops drinking and draws the skin back again. “Enough?”

“Yeah. For now.” He does feel better, more alert, though the weight of the water in his stomach only makes him aware that he’s starving. “Um, did you bring food?”

“Oh! Yes,” Arthur says, once again scrambling beneath the cloak. “It’s not much,”–he tells Merlin–“but, I managed to sneak some bits from my dinner. And that cook, Mella, left another note telling me that you’d need food. Slipped it beneath a whole poached grayling this time,” he laughs softly.

Merlin manages a weak chuckle.

Arthur retrieves more items from beneath the cloak, laying them out on the ground at his knees. Merlin can’t easily make out what’s there, but he thinks he recognizes a pastry they’d had the other evening at dinner and some bits that might be cheese. For all that Arthur said he didn’t get much, there’s quite a pile lying on an unfolded cloth.

“Um, Arthur, I can’t…,” he trails off, wagging his hands helplessly, jangling the chain that connects them.

Arthur seems to notices the manacles for the first time. “Why do they have those on you again?” he bites out, angrily. “It’s not like you can go anywhere.” His eyes are flinty even in the dark. It’s harder to see him tonight because the stars and moon are mostly obscured by the thick, scudding cloud cover, but Merlin’s eyes have adapted well-enough that he can make out Arthur’s features where they’re not shadowed by the hood of his cloak.

“The guard forgot,” Merlin tries to explain. “He put them on me when he let me out, but forgot to take them off.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Merlin does his best not to roll his eyes, which isn’t that difficult considering even his eye sockets ache. “Trust me, Arthur. It was in my best interests not to.”

He’s a little bit gratified to see that Arthur looks suddenly sheepish. “Sorry, that was stupid.”

“I can’t,” Merlin begins again, rolling his hands and rattling the chain. “I can’t feed myself.”

Arthur looks at him like _he’s_ the idiot this time. And maybe he is.

“Don’t be stupid, Merlin,” he says, but it’s with gruff tenderness.

He lifts something to Merlin’s mouth, and though it should be strange or awkward there’s just something about Arthur tending him like this, caring for him, that makes that odd warmth fill him again. He opens his mouth and Arthur places a small piece of a fruity, flaky pastry on Merlin’s tongue. Merlin bites down, feeling Arthur’s fingers trace across his lips just slightly when he draws away.

It’s slow going, getting through all that’s piled on that cloth, in this methodical, piece-at-a-time sort of way. Arthur breaks everything up into small, bite-sized morsels, and Merlin has to chew each one carefully and takes sips of water in between because he’s really too weak to do much more than that. But Arthur is patient and soft-spoken, kneeling before him, placing bit after bit into Merlin’s lips, touching his face and mouth almost carelessly.

It’s so casual and easy and not at all awkward, yet it’s not dispassionate – just an act of obligation - either; there’s an intimacy to the way Arthur’s thumb swipes crumbs away, and his breathing isn’t entirely steady and sometimes his eyes meet Merlin’s then drop away hurriedly.

The cloth empties about the same time that Merlin’s belly starts to protest.

Arthur wipes his hands on his cloak and shakes out the cloth. “Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, it’s fine, Arthur. Thank you. It was more than enough.”

Silence descends between them, and Arthur busies himself with stowing the water skin and cloth back in his belt while Merlin tries to think of something to say. “Oh, um, there’s a … uhm.” He hesitates a moment. Arthur’s already lowered himself to hand-feeding his manservant; Merlin’s slightly afraid to push for more. Then he thinks what Arthur might say if he found that Merlin held out on giving him more of a chance to help, and that spurs him to say, “A salve. Wulric brought it this morning.”

Arthur glances around, apparently looking for it. “Something that will help those cuts?”

“Yes,” Merlin replies. “It’s buried. To my left. Right next to the post. Wulric didn’t want it found.”

Arthur pulls a dagger and scrapes around at the dirt. He only digs a few seconds when Merlin hears the clack of metal hitting glass. “Ah, found it,” Arthur says, digging it out the rest of the way with his fingers. “What am I to do with this?” he asks. “Just spread it directly over the wounds?”

“Yes,” Merlin agrees. “That should do it.”

Arthur gets to his feet but pauses to place a hand softly on Merlin’s wrist. “I’ll be gentle.”

And he is, so very gentle. The fingers that touch Merlin’s shoulder – cool with the salve – alight like a butterfly landing on a flower. There’s a coolness to whatever’s in the unguent, and the smell that wafts to his nose reminds him of something Gaius has concocted and that he’s used to treat Arthur’s wounds in the past.

Arthur’s apparently thinking the same because he says, “This smells familiar.””

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. “I think it’s got comfrey and calendula in it. Probably honey and beeswax as well. Gaius makes something similar.”

“Hmmm,” is all Arthur replies, as he continues dabbing it carefully into all the various marks across Merlin’s back. He can count them, all twenty, as Arthur slowly and carefully traces each one with the tip of a finger, spreading the salve. It almost tickles when he gets to the one that curls around to Merlin’s abdomen and Arthur’s hand lingers there a moment more, just pressing lightly above his hip, thumb tracing the edge of the wound.

“That man this morning was a butcher,” Arthur curses. He sounds so full of fury, but his touch stays exceedingly gentle. It’s soothing and almost too much kindness and care for Merlin to take. He feels like he’s hardly known a friendly word or gesture in ages. Even Wulric’s charity seems an age ago.

Arthur hisses out a particularly awful noise at the flayed spot on Merlin’s shoulder. He lingers over that spot for a long time with the salve. “Reckless bastard,” he grumbles, adding a few other choice words under his breath that Merlin can’t quite make out, though their tone is clear enough.

“I’m all right, Arthur,” Merlin reassures him. “It’s not as bad—“

Arthur’s hands come off him then. “It _is_ that bad, Merlin. Trust me; I can see just how bad it is.”

Fingers come back to his skin, touching him low on the back, trailing down the center of his spine and out to either side just below his ribs, though this has more of the feel of a caress than any dispassionate and wholly clinical touch. Then both hands flatten over either side of his hips, curling possessively for just a moment.

Merlin thinks he feels the featherlite press of something against his nape, but Arthur’s hands are still holding him, so he must be mistaken. Whatever it is, it disappears after a moment and then Arthur let’s go and he comes back around to the front of the stocks. “I’ve used up all the salve,” he says apologetically. “I hope that’s enough.”

“It’ll be fine, Arthur, thank you.” Merlin tells him. “Don’t worry.”

There’s another soft sensation against his shoulder blade and he doesn’t know what to make of it, since Arthur’s still standing in front of him and Merlin can see both of his hands hanging at his sides (the empty jar still clutched in his fingers). Whatever it is, Arthur must sense it too because he looks up. “Dammit. It’s going to rain. I hope it doesn’t wash away all that I just put on you.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, it shouldn’t. Unless it really starts to pour, it’s probably thick enough it shouldn’t rinse away from a little rain.” He can feel the light patter starting, dropping against his skin here and there. It’s just a drizzle for now, but it’s definitely picking up.

Arthur kneels down in front of him again. He doesn’t hesitate at all to take up the same position he held last night: taking one of Merlin’s hands in his, interlacing their fingers, and pressing a palm to Merlin’s cheek. Merlin leans against that warmth gratefully.

“It’s just tonight yet, Arthur,” Merlin tells him, because he can tell Arthur’s feeling edgy and strung-out (else he’d never be so openly demonstrative, would he?) and he doesn’t want him to take any stupid risks.

“I know,” Arthur agrees, reluctantly. “But I still don’t think—“

Merlin doesn’t let him finish that thought. “Do you know about Wulric?”

Arthur frowns at that obvious change of subject, but goes along with it. “No, I don’t. What are you talking about?”

“Wulric, the guard who helped me,” Merlin explains. “He is the rightful heir of Essetir’s crown. He’s the one who should be king, not Egfrid. Egfrid stole the throne from him. And I think Egfrid, or more likely Gerold, is working with or for Morgana.”

Arthur jerks his head back in surprise (though he’s careful not to lose those points of contact with Merlin’s skin). “What? What are you talking about?”

Merlin tells him everything that Wulric had shared, including his own thoughts on why he suspects Morgana might be guiding Gerold’s hand. “I don’t know if it’s directly Egfrid or not. Or if he’s just being influenced by whatever Morgana is having Gerold whisper in his ear. Whatever the case, he’s being led to believe that the best thing for his hold over the kingdom is to have you killed and to start a war with Camelot.” He sighs. “I don’t think there’s any way he’s going to let us ride out of here tomorrow, with that treaty signed.”

“But you’ve served your sentence, Merlin. He can’t do anything else to you.” Arthur says it so surely, like he cares about nothing else. “You’ll be released to me tomorrow and we can leave. I won’t _let_ anything else happen.” He spits the last out bitterly and jerks his head away, unable to meet Merlin’s eyes. “I can’t believe I let things go this far. I should never have agreed—“

Merlin rubs his cheek against the palm cupping it. “Don’t, Arthur. Please don’t blame yourself. I’m the one who told you to leave me here and I’m the one who told you that I can handle this. And I can. You can’t take responsibility for this, Arthur.”

“Since when do I listen to you, Merlin?” Merlin can hear that he’s trying to laugh, but it sounds so, so broken. “I should’ve stopped it, Merlin. Damn the treaty.”

“Arthur,” Merlin chides, “we’re going to argue about this all night.” He _is_ capable of a weak chuckle. “Look. Just be extra alert tomorrow. And tonight. I still think there something… this isn’t the end. Trust me.”

“Well, the treaty is due to be signed in the morning. All the details have been hashed out. I don’t think that Egfrid’s too happy with it, but his council is pushing for it. I think we may have swayed them to our side on this. Or at least to the side of peace. Maybe whatever hold Egfrid had over them is no longer as strong and they’re willing to stand up for their people once again?” He shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe this Mella and Wulric and the others will succeed in their rebellion. But honestly Merlin, at this point, I don’t give a damn. I just want to get you out of here.”

He leans his head close again, letting his brow rest lightly against Merlin’s. “You should _never_ have to do things like this for me.”

“Arthur—,” Merlin starts to say, but this time Arthur interrupts him.

“No, Merlin. No. This is too much. I’ve let you… I’ve always…” He can’t seem to find the words he wants to say. The rain is coming harder now, plastering Merlin’s hair to his forehead and running into his eyes. It’s soaking through the thick wool of the blue cloak. “Just… Listen, I…”

“Arthur,” Merlin has to say when Arthur just trails off helplessly. “It’s all right.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that,” Arthur shoots back, but he’s not angry.

“You should go,” Merlin tells him. Arthur’s uncomfortable; fragile and too exposed. Merlin doesn’t want him spilling out long-held secrets or angst-inspired words that he’ll later regret. There will be a time for all that – whether it ends up being actual, honest conversation or too familiar repression – later; Merlin plans on making sure of that.

Arthur’s nod rocks Merlin’s head with it. “Yes,” he says reluctantly. “I probably should.” He draws away slowly. Then he presses his lips to Merlin’s brow. It’s not a light touch, but a firm, lingering kiss. “Get some sleep,” he mutters and Merlin can feel the words shaped against his skin.

Before Merlin can even think how to respond – Arthur _kissed_ him! – Arthur is pulling back again, this time hastily (though his hands come away from Merlin with exaggerated care). He stands, the cloak slapping at his legs, heavy and damp. “Good night, Merlin.”

Merlin’s still rather stunned and imagines he can still feel the heated press of Arthur’s lips despite the rain already cooling his skin, so it takes him a moment before he calls out after him, “Good night, Arthur.”

Even the rain, chilling his skin into gooseflesh and turning the ground beneath his knees to squelching mud, isn’t enough to pull Merlin’s thoughts away from what just occurred. The longer he thinks on it though, the more he begins to doubt.

Not the act – there’s no doubting that Arthur’s lips touched Merlin’s skin – but the motivation behind it. He’d immediately read tenderness, perhaps – if he’s very bold with his thoughts – even affection, but now he wonders if he was only imagining what he _wanted_ to feel. What he’d want a kiss from Arthur to feel like. Perhaps it was pity, or Arthur had been overwhelmed by his misguided sense of guilt?

Merlin’s suddenly very sure that he only felt it as anything other than a simple acknowledgement, because that’s what he _wanted_ it to be.

He lets himself go lax in his bonds while thoughts chase over and over in his mind. He knows he should focus on the healing and trying to find that balance of focus his magic needs between his body and his heart, but he can’t seem to get there. Yes, he’s got thoughts of Arthur freshly churning in his mind, but he can’t seem to get them to settle. Even fantasy is denied to him, because every time he tries to progress the scene in his head, tries to imagine how things _could_ have played out, his imagination balks and gets mired in the mess of trying to understand Arthur’s true intent.

It can’t be too long after Arthur’s gone, and Merlin is still trying to muddle through his inability to get his magic to cooperate, that he catches a sound beneath the steady pattering of raindrops. It’s the wet slap of footfalls on sodden ground. He’s about to lift his head, hoping that it’s Arthur returning for whatever reason, when he recognizes an odd quality to the sound: an echo.

No, not an echo, he realizes a moment later, it’s a second pair of footsteps. There are two people approaching.

Unsure what, or who, to expect, as there’s no one who should be coming to see him after Arthur, Merlin stays still and listens carefully.

He hears a voice say, “You’re sure he’ll be asleep?”

And that sounds like—

“Yes, my King,” Gerold responds.

Egfrid and Gerold.

Merlin’s heart jumps in his chest.

“You’re certain what you gave him will make him sleep through the night and into morning?”

“Yes, my lord,” Gerold repeats. “It was a strong soporific. If he drank even half the water in that skin, he should be out all the night and well into tomorrow.”

“Good,” Egfrid replies.

Merlin hears them come closer, circling him. They stop at the front of the stocks and a hand pushes at his head. Fighting an instinctive urge to go tense, Merlin lets his head wobble loose on his neck, like one deeply relaxed in slumber. “You see,” Gerold says, sounding satisfied.

Feigning sleep, Merlin thinks frantically about the water Arthur had brought. He’d finished almost all of it. There’d been no off-taste, and he certainly doesn’t feel as if he’s been slipped a sleeping draught.

Wait, hadn’t Arthur mentioned it had been drawn fresh, from the well?

Clearly whatever Gerold had dosed it with got rinsed out, and Gerold is none-the-wiser.

“We have to get Pendragon to break, you know,” Gerold says urgently.

Egfrid snorts noisily. “Trust me, I know it well. But, don’t worry; it will surely happen tomorrow. And I’ll have my guards at the ready. All that it will take is for Pendragon to put a hand on that hilt of his sword. The blasted Elder’s Council can’t argue against the threat that would represent. I will be completely justified in my actions and they’ll be forced to support the invasion of Camelot.”

“Yes but,” Gerold protests, oddly vehement. “You’re _sure_ that what you’ve got planned will push Pendragon over the edge?”

“Oh yes,” Egfrid says with a laugh. “You saw him today, didn’t you? It took all he had to keep himself charging the field.”

“But, he _did_ manage to stay his hand,” Gerold argues.

“And didn’t you say you followed him tonight?” Egfrid goes on, ignoring the concern his valet is voicing. “You told me yourself that he snuck out here as soon as he thought you asleep. He’s not even able to keep himself abed out of sheer concern for this boy.”

There’s a murmur of agreement.

Damn, Merlin thinks, Arthur wasn’t as careful coming to see him as he thought. Or, Egfrid is right and he’d just gotten careless out of his worry. Neither is good, for Arthur’s sake.

“You see?”

“Still,” Gerold goes on. “I could not follow as far as the punishment yard, my lord. I only know that Pendragon left the keep for a time and returned with a wet cloak. He may not have come here at all.”

At that Egfrid lets out a derisive snort. “You and I both know he did.” Merlin feels fingers push into one of the lash marks high on a shoulder and it’s all he can do not to flinch from it. “There, you see? Some kind of unguent. He not only came out here to check this servant’s condition, he tended his wounds as well. What more proof do you need?”

“It’s just, we must be sure.”

“Don’t you worry,” Egfrid states, firmly. “What I’ve got planned for this boy will be sure to push Pendragon past the edge of his reason. He’ll break for certain. He’ll go for that sword, and more perhaps.”

“He must!” Gerold insists. “He must. You understand that the councilors are already starting too—“

Egfrid cuts him off. “I know the council is already trying to wrest control from me.” He says it viciously, like a man suddenly paranoid. “But they won’t get away with that. And once war with Camelot gets underway, that’ll put an end to this silly uprising. I’ve already got Wulric just where I want him. His cohorts won’t be too hard to suss out after.”

“True,” Gerold agrees. “But you understand that the aid we were promised will _only_ come if Arthur Pendragon dies?”

“I know,” Egfrid replies brusquely. “And I already told you that I have it all figured out. Tomorrow when we go to release this boy, there’s one little amendment I’ll make to his punishment.”

“How will you explain that away? What justification will you have for furthering his sentence?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Egfrid says airily. “Some obscure law we overlooked. And with the boy here unable to do anything to avoid his fate, Pendragon will _have_ to stop it.”

“As you say,” Gerald agrees, though he sounds reluctant. Like he doesn’t trust leaving the details of their scheming up to Egfrid.

Merlin’s fairly sure that the ‘help’ Gerold is referring to when it comes to a war with Camelot is Morgana, though he hasn’t said her name directly.

“Let’s get out of this blasted rain,” Egfrid says a few moments later, complaining. “I don’t know why you insisted on meeting out here in the first place.”

They start to walk away, but Merlin catches enough of Gerold’s reply. “I told you, I needed to be sure the boy drank the sleeping draught. Plus, it wouldn’t be wise to be caught…” his voice trails off into the obscurity of distance and rainfall.

Merlin risks lifting his head a few moments later to look around. The yard is empty as far as he can see in any direction.

The knowledge that Egfrid has some unknown plans for him, and Arthur, is sobering, and pushes all thoughts of that kiss out of Merlin’s head. He has no idea what it could be, or why his being unconscious would help (unless he just needs Merlin tractable… which doesn’t bode well). There are so many things he can envision that might push Arthur past his breaking point: each more unpleasant than the last. Merlin’s never seen Arthur as frayed and vulnerable as he was earlier, and he fears that Egfrid is right in suggesting it won’t take much more to get him to snap.

And if it doesn’t, it sounds as if Egfrid will have Arthur cut down regardless.

There’s no getting out of this, just as Merlin has suspected for some time.

He wishes desperately that Arthur would return. He needs for him to know what’s going on. Although, when he’d tried to press the urgency of things earlier, Arthur just hadn’t seemed focused. Merlin isn’t even sure he’d be able to impress upon him the significance of this latest news.

All that Merlin can do is be prepared for… anything. He sniffs in derision and ends up inhaling rainwater.

The night that passes is one of the longest Merlin’s known.

Merlin dozes fitfully, on and off, for a few hours, though he can’t manage more than a handful of not very restful naps. He keeps snapping out of them, half-expecting to find Egfrid and his cohorts with Arthur at the point of a sword. The few dreams he has are frenetic and leave him gasping and jolting awake in a panic.

It’s easier to just stay awake.

The rain tapers off before dawn, when the sky is just starting to lighten from indigo to deep cerulean. Merlin does manage to fall into his healing state for a little while, drifting in that half-aware state while the morning grows brighter and warmer and the sun eventually rises to gild the edges of the lingering clouds.

Merlin’s not expecting a visit from Wulric this morning, and he knows that Arthur’s due to join the final treaty discussions early, so he’s unsurprised when the morning passes by without a single person coming to the yard.

The silent monotony is finally broken sometime in the late morning – nearing midday if Merlin’s view of the sun is at all accurate – when a pair of men enter the yard.

They’re carrying something heavy between them. They completely ignore Merlin – who peers at them through carefully slatted lids – and set the odd looking object down in grass several feet away from him. Merlin can’t quite make out what it is, and he doesn’t risk raising his head since he’s supposed to be deeply asleep.

The men leave only a few minutes later. Merlin risks a longer look at whatever they delivered; it’s an odd three-legged stand of some sort, with a wide band that looks to be some kind of cradle for a vessel, though it stands empty at the moment.

He’s still trying to puzzle it out when he hears more sounds and has to let his head down and close his eyes once again.

“Over there,” he hears. “Egrid wants it set up there.”

Merlin doesn’t recognize the voice, and when he peeks an eye just a fraction the only people he can see are unfamiliar guards and laborers. Whatever the stand is supposed to hold is being set in place. Merlin can only see an edge of it, but it still looks like no more than a bowl of some dark, chipped stone or pitted iron.

A morning breeze drifts past him and carries an odd scent on it; one that tickles Merlin’s nostrils in an annoyingly familiar way. He tries to place it but is suddenly distracted as more voices and footsteps start to fill the yard.

Merlin’s stomach clenches in anticipation. It seems that the time has arrived.

Voices and footfalls and the clank of armour and the shuffle of rustling clothes fill the area, and Merlin can hear bodies taking their places on the raised dais. He wonders if Egfrid is there yet. And if so, is Arthur next to him as well?

He wishes he could acknowledge Arthur in some way, share some sign or signal just to let him know that he’s okay. But he can’t give up the ruse of being knocked-out just yet. It’s his only advantage at the moment.

It seems to take an age and a half before Egfrid finally beings to speak. “Honoured guests, respected elders, noble Knights of Essetir and Camelot, as you all know, we come here together in an accord of peace, forged in a treaty signed not an hour past. It is to our immeasurable satisfaction that we may celebrate that historic treatise by bearing witness to the release of the prisoner, Merlin, who has completed the stipulations of his sentence.”

“Then by all means, release him,” Arthur states firmly.

“Ah, there is one item remaining, Pendragon, before we may release your much beloved manservant.” He sounds delighted with this little twist.

“What item?” Arthur asks sharply. Merlin hears additional low, dissatisfied muttering and wonders if Gwaine and the others are there as well.

“Oh, it is a matter of the standard conclusion of all punishment overseen by the crown,” Egfrid’s tone is flip, almost offhand.

“You said nothing about this when you passed sentence!” Arthur argues, and already he sounds desperate. Merlin’s not sure what knowledge he has that’s putting that tone in his voice, but it sends a thrum of fear through Merlin’s whole body.

“Please forgive me, King Arthur,” Egfrid says, sounding not an iota contrite. “I merely assumed this was a standard practice carried out at the conclusion of sentencing of all criminals. Had I but known that it wasn’t common practice in Camelot, I’d surely have mentioned that your servant was to be marked for his crimes before his release.”

Marked? What does that mean? Merlin’s whole back is a map work of the marks he’s already received.

Suddenly Merlin places that stringent, nostril-stinging fragrance: red-hot coals.

He’s to be _branded_.

Already Merlin can sense men moving at his sides. He gives up on all pretense of sleep and lifts his head frantically to look at Arthur.

Even were Merlin willing to accept such a thing – and he’s not – there’s _no way in hell_ Arthur’s going to stand for it. _This_ is what Egfrid meant when he’d assured Gerold that he’d get Arthur to snap.

“It won’t happen, Egfrid,” Arthur growls out.

At Arthur’s vehement denial, his red-cloaked knights start to circle, but there’s a wall of purple and white tabards between them and Arthur. Arthur stands alone against Egfrid and his personal guard.

Egfrid shakes his head, mock-sadly. “I’m afraid it must, Pendragon.” He turns away from Arthur then, blatantly dismissive, and gestures to the guards. “Begin.”

Merlin feels the stocks open and hands grab at him, yanking him upright. He struggles against them even as he watches Arthur put a hand to the sword at his hip.

“This stops now, Egfrid!” Arthur shouts.

Everything happens all at once:

Men draw Merlin’s arms taut, a fist tightens in his hair to wrench his head back and a guard – the cruel one with the notched ear – approaches with a red-hot iron outstretched towards Merlin’s face.

Arthur draws his sword, face apoplectic with rage. He screams something – it might be Merlin’s name.

The guards surrounding Arthur pull their own weapons, some turn to engage the Camelot knights who have likewise drawn swords.

Egfrid dances back behind the defensive line of his men, those that separate him from Arthur, even as one guard at Arthur’s back starts to swing a long dagger towards Arthur’s spine.

Merlin screams, “Arthur, no!”

He lets his magic free...

It rushes out of him in a torrent of elemental fury, like nothing he’s ever known.

Electric blue lightning, jolting down from a crystal clear sky, strikes in a dazzling circumference around him and the men holding Merlin tumble and collapse the ground, twitching and smoking. The purple-clad guards on the dais are likewise thrown off their feet in an impossible storm of spiraling ice, gouts flame and slicing wind that sweep past, leaving each of the Camelot Knights unscathed.

The dagger just about to pierce Arthur’s vulnerable back crumbles to ash… as does the man wielding it.

Chaos reigns.

All around there are screams and a mad scramble to escape the whirling vortices chasing over the grounds, tearing up grass and earth and all the evil implements of torture that fill the yard, leaving little more than kindling and debris in their wake.

Egfrid cowers behind his makeshift throne, yanking desperately at Gerold’s tunic, blubbering and begging him to save them.

“Morgana!” Gerold calls out imploringly to the open sky. “Please, we need you!”

His cry goes unanswered and Merlin silences him for good with a blink of molten gold eyes.

Egfrid begins to gibber as Gerold’s body falls lifeless at his feet, head twisted to an impossible angle on his neck.

It’s Arthur – pale and wide-eyed – but still firm with purpose, who puts a sword point to Egfrid’s chest.

“We could’ve had peace!” Arthur growls in outrage. He leans onto the sword, driving it slowly forward.

“Wait! Stop!” a voice calls out into the maelstrom. The words are strident but feminine and almost scolding in their tone.

Oddly, it reminds Merlin of his mother.

It’s Mella. Merlin spies her crossing bravely in the yard, Wulric following after and a mass of others – knights, kitchen staff, servants, laborers - lingering just in the egress.

Merlin looks to Arthur. Arthur, who is blessedly alive and whole, and who is staring back at him with an incomprehensible expression.

Arthur inclines his head gravely.

Merlin returns the gesture, bowing his head in obeisance, and then he manages - with no little difficulty - to pull the magic back. It coalesces within him, burning like a sun at his core, and then slowly it dissipates into the very substance of himself. As his eyes lose their golden glow and that wavering haze disappears from his vision Merlin locks eyes with Arthur again, and he sees that much loved face change: anger and confusion and disbelief become pain and betrayal and loss. His name is formed on Arthur’s lips…

It’s the last thing he sees before darkness claims him.


	6. Chapter 6

Merlin wakes to an odd rumbling, bumping sensation that jostles him back and forth. He stretches, feeling something yielding beneath his side, that’s laid over a hard surface. With a low groan, because his body aches from head-to-toe, he starts to roll over.

There’s a sudden sound of clambering, and he hears a low voice say, “Hey, now. None of that. Trust me, you don’t wanna go rolling onto your back.”

A hand curls over his bicep holding him in place. Merlin blinks open sleep-crusted eyes, and the face grinning down at him swims slowly into focus. “Gwaine?”

“There you are.” His smile is gentle but there’s a faint wariness around his eyes.

Merlin tries to sit-up.

“Whoa, there. Might wanna take it slow.” Gwaine uses his hold on Merlin’s arm to help lever him up.

As he settles, getting his legs crossed beneath him, Merlin finally gets a look around and realizes that the odd motion he’s been feeling is because he’s in the back of a wagon. There are several thick blankets beneath him, lining the wagon bed, and various packs – including Merlin’s own – are pushed up against the walls. “What’s going on?” he asks, still foggy-headed. His head feels like it’s been wrapped in thick cotton, and his mouth is dry and tastes terrible. “Where are we?”

Alarm shoots through him suddenly, and he looks around frantically. He starts to scramble to his feet.

“Whoa, Merlin. Settle it down. What’s the prob—“

“Arthur!” Merlin blurts out. He whips his head around to see that Percival – who is apparently driving the wagon – is looking back at him in concern, but Arthur is nowhere to be seen. “Where’s Arthur?”

“He’s fine, Merlin,” Percival hurries to reassure him. “Look,” he leans to the side and points further down the narrow, wood-lined road. There’s a lone figure on horseback some lengths ahead of the matched bays drawing the wagon. “He’s perfectly safe.”

Percival and Gwaine exchange a telling look, while Merlin slumps back down and blows out a heavy breath. “Why is he riding so far ahead?” Merlin asks. He looks around again, trying to spot the rest of their party. “And where are Elyan and the others?”

“One question at a time,” Gwaine tells him, but his easy smile is back. “First, we’ve got some of our own. Like, how are you feeling? You’ve had quite the long… nap, you know.”

“What do you mean? How long was I asleep?” He starts to think back over the past few days events and finds them a bit of a blur.

Gwaine’s brow lifts and he shakes his head. “Nope. You don’t get answers until we do. We’re under strict orders.”

“We just need to make sure you’re okay, Merlin,” Percival calls back over his shoulder, his attention once again on the long reins that direct the horses pulling the wagon.

“Do you need anything? Water? Food?” Gwaine asks, and he’s so oddly persistent that Merlin can’t quite answer him at first.

Is he thirsty or hungry? He’s tired… that much he does know. And his whole body feels as if he’s spent two days as Arthur’s practice dummy on the training fields.

“Water,” he finally tells Gwaine. “I think I’d like some water.”

Gwaine hands over a water skin and as Merlin puts it to his lips the sensation seems to trip some trigger in his mind and everything from the last few days comes flooding back in a rush. Images, sensations and pain… mostly pain, flash through his mind and he gasps.

“Merlin?” Gwaine’s voice sounds alarmed, but oddly distant. “C’mon, Merlin. You’re alright, lad.”

There are hands on him, holding him carefully, touching his forehead and peeling back his eyelids, but all that Merlin can focus on is the memories...

He’d done magic in front of Arthur. And not just some little trick, easy to explain away. Real magic. The kind that harnessed the elements and left bodies in its wake.

And now Arthur is riding in front of them, not next to Merlin in the back of this wagon. Why?

And what happened after he collapsed?

It takes effort – Merlin’s head is so full and spinning madly – but Merlin manages to focus on the present once again. “I’m all right,” he gasps out. “I’m okay…”

Percival must’ve halted the wagon because he’s in back with Merlin and Gwaine. He’s kneeling next to Merlin, big hands curled around each shoulder. Gwaine is scrambling through Merlin’s bag, though Merlin has no idea what he could be looking for.

“You’re okay?” Percival asks, softly and kind like he’s speaking to a child.

Gwaine stops his rummaging and looks over. “Merlin?” He’s peaky and wide-eyed in a way Merlin’s never seen before.

Merlin nods. “Yeah, I’m okay. I… sorry, it just. It all came back in a rush.” He quirks his mouth sheepishly. “It was a lot to take in.”

Percival drops his hands but doesn’t move away. He looks relieved. “Yeah, I’d say so.” He picks up the water skin that Merlin must’ve dropped. “Here, why don’t you get a drink? Sounds like you could use it.”

Merlin takes it gratefully and gulps down several refreshing mouthfuls that soothe his dry throat and chase away some of that lingering metallic taste. “Thanks,” he says once he’s had enough.

“Better now?” Percival asks.

“Yeah.” Merlin nods again.

Gwaine moves from where he’s kneeling by the bags back into casual slouch using them as a backrest. “Hungry? We’ve got plenty of food here.” He picks up an apple that’s peeking out of one of the packs and tosses it from one hand to the other.

“Um, no.” Merlin shakes his head. “Not yet.” His stomach is definitely empty, but it doesn’t feel nearly settled enough to manage food right now. “Maybe in a bit,” he adds when Gwaine looks a little let down.

“I’m going to get the wagon moving again,” Percival tells him and climbs back over the front edge of the cart into the seat.

While he’s picking up the reins and clucking at the horses to get them walking again Merlin looks past his broad back to see if Arthur’s even noticed their stop. Apparently he has because his horse is turned, profiled in the roadway, and Arthur is watching them. When he sees that they’re moving again – or perhaps he notices Merlin looking – he turns his mount and starts down the road.

Gwaine’s hand lands on his shoulder, patting gently. “Give him time, Merlin.”

Well that answers one of his questions. Apparently Arthur’s distance is to do with finding out about Merlin’s magic. Though, Gwaine and Percival don’t seem too affected by it, and he’s filled with a rush of affection for his friends.

“And you?” Merlin asks. “Do you need time as well?”

Gwaine gives his shoulder a friendly jostle. “Me? Nah. You’ve always been a strange one, my friend. Makes no difference to me.”

“Though it does explain some things,” Percival says, looking over his shoulder to grin back at them. “I’ve often wondered if some of the bandits and enemies we’ve encountered were really that incompetent. Now I suspect they might have had some help in that.”

Cheeks growing hot with their acceptance – it’s more than he could’ve hoped for – Merlin ducks his head. “Well, sometimes they are just that incompetent.” They laugh with him. “Though I’ll admit to having a hand in it sometimes.”

“Bit of a heavy hand this last time though,” Gwaine says, but not with any censure. He cants his head to study Merlin. “You okay with all that?”

The image of Gerold’s twisted neck flashes momentarily before his eyes. He has no idea how many men he actually killed in that yard… but he’d be surprised if any of those he’d intended to stop had walked away from it. He gulps hard. “My magic,” and how strange is it to say that aloud, “has never been like that before. I’ve never channeled that much power.”

That’s not really answering Gwaine’s question though, and Gwaine’s expression says as much. “But, um, I’ve killed before. And they were going to kill Arthur. They were going to kill all of us, to start a war with Camelot.” He lifts his chin. “I had to stop it.”

Gwaine holds up his hands in a warding gesture, though he’s still grinning. “No one’s arguing with you there, mate. Me and Percival are just glad you got us out of there. So are the others. No one’s faulting you for what you did. Trust me.”

“Except Arthur,” Merlin lets it slip. He doesn’t want to appear quite so pathetically hurt by Arthur’s distance from him, but he is.

“Like I said, give him time, Merlin. He’ll come ‘round.” Gwaine picks the apple back up and holds it out. Merlin takes it just for something to do with his hands.

“And you didn’t see him after, Merlin.” Percival adds. “Wouldn’t let any of us near you at first. Had to be the one to carry you out of there himself. Normally I’d never advocate listening to Gwaine, but he’s right in this case. I think Arthur just needs time.”

Gwaine blows out a noisy breath of protest and snags the apple from Merlin to throw at the back of Percival’s head. It bounces off a shoulder and rolls back into the bed of the wagon.

“So what did happen after?” Merlin asks. “And where are Elyan and the rest of the Knights?”

Percival answers. “Arthur sent them on ahead to Camelot. He wanted to take a bit more time getting you back safely.”

“You’ve been unconscious for almost two days, Merlin.” Gwaine adds.

“Two days?” That’s quite a bit more than he expected, and clearly he’s missed a lot.

“Yeah, at first Arthur didn’t want to move you at all. No one knew when or if you’d come out of it, to be honest. But we had the king’s personal physical check you over and he said you’d just expended an unnatural amount of energy, and would just need to rest up. That you’d come out of it in a day or two.”

“Wait, whose physician?” Merlin’s getting a bit lost. Egfrid’s personal physician examined him?

“Start from the beginning, Gwaine.” Percival advises.

“Right,” Gwaine agrees. “That’ll be easier. So, let’s see.” He scratches at his chin. “Right after you collapsed, things were a bit, uh… chaotic in that courtyard. This fella, Wulric comes in and he and this bossy woman stop Arthur putting a sword through Egfrid.”

“Mella,” Merlin offers, knowing exactly which ‘bossy woman’ Gwaine’s referring to. Besides, he was still awake when they’d first arrived. “So what happened next?”

“Right, Mella. Great cook, that woman. Fantastic pies.”

“Gwaine,” Percival chides. “Get on with telling it.”

He does. “So, after they show up, Egfrid gets slapped in irons and hustled off to the dungeon. Wulric manages to get the Elder’s Council to convene – though they were a little uh, put out by your little display.”

Merlin can imagine. He vaguely remembers anyone on the dais who was not a guard running in a panic for the exit. “What happened?”

“Well, that Wulric spoke for you, and apparently there was some business with Morgana?” Gwaine shakes his head. “Honestly, Merlin, this whole thing was like peeling an onion. Just layer after layer of complexity.” He pauses again to reach into a sack for another apple. “Eat this, would you. I keep getting distracted by the sound of your belly rumbling.”

“Oh.” Merlin takes the fruit. He hadn’t realized his hunger pangs were so audible. “Sorry.” He takes a bite of the apple, but flips a hand trying to get Gwaine to keep going.

“That’s better.” Gwaine smiles approvingly. “Anyway, I guess they found some secret messages from Morgana in that Gerold’s quarters. So they brought Egfrid before the council and he confessed everything. Your little display shook him, Merlin. He copped to taking help from Morgana. Even admitted that he’d never planned on letting Arthur leave. That the war he wanted with Camelot was just to get at the gold in those mines. Whole list of other crimes. When we left he was back in the dungeons.”

“So who’s in charge then? The council?”

Gwaine shakes his head. “Nope. That’s one decision they made quick. They named Wulric as rightful heir and gave him the crown.”

“Good man, Wulric,” Percival adds. “He’s the one who insisted on getting you to his physician. And he made sure to sign the treaty between Essetir and Camelot before we left. So it’s still valid.”

Merlin is pleased to hear all that. Wulric had seemed like a good sort – once he got over his distrust of Merlin – and he’ll make a just and fair king for his people.

“Yeah,” Gwaine agrees. “I think he was just grateful that you saved him and that Mella and their folk from staging a bloody revolution.”

Percival twists back to fact them again. “He offered to let us stay as long as we needed, until you were better. But Arthur thought it best to get you out of there. So, Wulric insisted on giving us this wagon and gear and suppliers. Least he could do, he said.” He faces front again, clucking at his tongue and working the reins because one of the horses used his momentary distraction to wander a bit far to the left and is biting and lipping at low hanging tree branches.

“Speaking of supplies,” Gwaine begins, shifting up to his knees so that he can get at one of the packs. “We should probably get you your medicine.”

“Medicine?” Merlin echoes.

Gwaine holds up a stoppered bottle. “Yeah. We’ve been dosing you regularly. Uh, what did that old man say it was called?”

“Tincture of willowbark and poppy,” Percival supplies. He’s gotten the horses straightened out again and they’re plodding down the center of the road.

“For the pain,” Gwaine adds.

“Oh! Right.” As soon as he says it, Merlin realizes that he’s not feeling nearly as much pain as he should be. He reaches an arm behind him to feel at his back, and the angry lines are still scored across the skin. They’re warm, though not with a festering kind of heat, and they feel scabby and sticky. He also notices for the first time that he’s been cleaned up and dressed in different clothes. The trousers are his, but the tunic fits loosely, though it’s familiar. He thinks it might be one of Arthur’s.

Gwaine hands over the bottle. “It’s not infected. There’s a salve we’ve put on it a few times as well.”

“You mean that Arthur’s put on,” Percival corrects.

Merlin lifts his head from looking at the bottle. “Arthur? He’s been…”

“Yeah,” Gwaine nods, and it’s a gesture heavy with meaning. “Won’t trust either of us to do it.” He nods at the edge of the tunic Merlin is fiddling with. “Got you bathed and dressed all on his own, too.”

Well that’s just confusing. Arthur hadn’t even ridden back to check on him when he woke, and he’s clearly avoiding Merlin, but apparently he’s been caring for Merlin and personally tending his wounds. Merlin has no idea what to make of that.

“After you get that stuff down, get a bit more to eat. The physician said this stuff will make you drowsy and you’ve gone too long without a good meal.”

Merlin nods dutifully. He unstoppers the bottle and takes a good swallow - it’s bitter, the willowbark for certain – and then asks, “All of it?”

Gwaine nods. “Yep. We’ve got a few more bottles, so don’t worry about rationing.”

While Merlin finishes off the tonic, Gwaine starts pulling more food out of the bags. He sets crumbling biscuits and a wedge of white cheese and salted ham and some nutty tarts and even another apple on a cloth in front of Merlin. “Dig in.” He urges.

Since Merlin’s stomach is rumbling in earnest now, and the queasy feeling has gone, he complies eagerly. While he eats, Gwaine and Percival fill him in on a bit more of the happenings he missed back in Essetir. They describe the mock-tournament that Egfrid had staged. Merlin had only gotten the briefest update from Arthur – essentially the assurance that everyone had survived - and never learned the outcome of the actual matches. It certainly sounds like they were entertaining bouts; if Gwaine’s storytelling is to be believed (although Percival backs him on most of the details).

By the time he finishes practically all the food and drains another half water skin, Merlin’s yawning again.

“All right, that’s enough chatter.” Gwaine says, stopping in the middle of a story about Elyan’s opponent stumbling into a weapon rack after Elyan had gotten him on the rump with the flat of a sword. “You, Merlin my lad, need your rest.”

“But I only just woke up.” Merlin protests, but he has to admit that the words feel thick on his tongue. The soporific effect of the poppy extract is certainly kicking in.

“And you’re still healing and need to regain your strength,” Percival chides gently. “So don’t argue.”

Gwaine helps him ease down onto his belly again, and the layer of blankets padding the bottom of the cart makes a surprisingly soft pallet. He lays another lightweight blanket over him, and then ruffles his hair. “We’ll be here if you need us.”

“Thanks,” Merlin mutters. And despite apparently having been asleep for the better part of two days, Merlin drifts off only a few minutes later.

The next time he comes awake it’s dark and the wagon is stopped. He lifts his head carefully and looks around. Percival and Gwaine aren’t at the front of the wagon, but Merlin hears their voices nearby. He sits up further, pushing himself to his knees. Straightening from all fours isn’t easy – his muscles ache despite the medicine – but he manages to use the wall of the wagon for support and levers himself somewhat upright. Of course his knees are still bruised and he curses softly.

“Merlin?”

That’s Gwaine.

Merlin finally spots him just a short distance away. It looks as if they’ve made camp. There’s a sizeable fire burning and two large tents (ones they didn’t travel with from Camelot, so likely more gifts from Wulric) stand on either side of a large clearing. Gwaine’s walking over to him, but Percival looks to be tending a pot hanging over the fire. There’s no sign of Arthur.

With dread sinking the pit of his stomach Merlin asks, “Where’s Arthur? Did he keep going?” Has Merlin finally been left behind?

Gwaine shakes his head, tossing his hair messily. “Naw. The princess is just tending to the horses. He’ll be back soon enough. C’mon, let’s get you down from there. Probably be good to stretch your legs a bit. Then you can have some of Percival’s stew.” He lifts both arms, inviting Merlin to use them as support to get over the edge of the wagon.

Swinging his leg over the side hurts muscles Merlin didn’t even know he had, but Gwaine’s there to steady him and he manages to land on both feet with only a bit of a stumble.

“No promises that it’ll actually be edible, mind you,” Gwaine says with a laugh.

“Hey, saved you from having to cook, didn’t it?” Percival shoots back.

In a loud aside Gwaine says, “There’s always more apples.”

Percival ignores that.

Merlin takes a few steps and finds that he’s steadier than he expected. Gwaine stays close by though, and twice Merlin has to reach out to grasp at Gwaine’s arm or shoulder to keep from stumbling. But it gets easier with each step.

They walk in rough circles around the wagon, where the trees are thin and the ground is relatively flat. When they get back to the clearing Merlin is walking fairly easily. It still hurts, pain grinding in his hips and his lower back is already starting to ache, but he’s feeling pretty good despite all that.

“C’mon,” Percival says, patting a large split log that’s set on one side of the fire. “Take a seat and I’ll dish you up some of my delicious stew.” He bares his teeth at Gwaine on the word.

Waving away Gwaine’s help, Merlin does as Percival suggests. The log isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s better than levering himself all the way back to the ground. When he’s settled Percival hands over a bowl that’s brimming with fragrant, steaming stew. He stares at Merlin expectantly.

Merlin scoops out a spoonful and blows a stream of air over the chunks of vegetables and meat swimming in a thick broth to cool it. He bites carefully, not wanting to burn his tongue, and finds that it’s quite tasty. “It’s really good,” he tells Percival when he’s finished chewing and swallowing.

Percival looks vindicated. “Told you, Gwaine. I make a better stew than you.”

Gwaine comes over and claims a spot on the log next to Merlin. He passes over a water skin and Merlin takes a long drink before tossing the flask to Percival.

Despite his rhetoric about Percival’s stew, Gwaine accepts a bowl gladly enough. “Well,” he admits after his own spoonful, “I suppose it’s not that bad. Now,” he goes on, careless that he’s talking with his mouth full, “if I were to make it, I’d throw in some wild mushroom.”

Sitting back with his own bowl, Percival shakes his head. “We haven’t got mushrooms, Gwaine, and you know it.”

“Still, you could’ve gone hunting the woods for some. This isn’t bad, but it’s missing a sort of…” he trails off into silence and Merlin looks up to see what’s caught his attention.

Arthur has returned.

He’s standing at the edge of the clearing, just staring at them all.

“Uh, stew’s ready.” Percival offers to break the awkward silence. He stands and carries a bowl over to Arthur.

Arthur accepts it, but doesn’t join them. “I just need to,” he begins, and he gestures vaguely and then doesn’t finish the sentence. He crosses the clearing, staying close to the edge, and goes over to the wagon.

Merlin’s appetite vanishes. He’s almost finished his food anyway, and he just pushes around the last few mouthfuls until Gwaine takes the bowl from him and scrapes what’s remaining into his own bowl.

Gwaine and Percival look to be eating in a hurry and by the time Arthur returns to the clearing, Percival is already collecting their dishes. “I’ll just get these in the morning.” He stacks them near the fire and puts a lid over the pot.

Gwaine stretches and yawns, wide-mouthed and clearly exaggerated. “Whew, getting late, isn’t it?” He looks from Arthur to Merlin and shakes his head with an expression of utter frustration. “Think I’ll turn in,” he says pointedly.

Percival stands and copies Gwaine’s over-the-top stretching. “Yeah, all that cart-driving, got me knackered. I’ll turn in as well.”

Merlin thinks that it’s probably quite telling that even Percival is looking at them both like they need to get their heads sorted. Percival claps Gwaine on the shoulder and then has to tug him along when Gwaine looks like he’s about to say something else. They disappear into the furthest tent a few seconds later and make a show of closing the flaps.

Arthur comes near the fire and slumps heavily down on the far end of the log. “Well that wasn’t obvious,” he grumbles.

Merlin snorts in amusement, though he doesn’t say anything. It’s for the best, he thinks, that he let Arthur take the lead in all of this.

“I… uh, your back, Merlin.” Arthur holds up a fist-sized clay pot and cloth. “Your wounds need tending.”

“Oh, right.” Merlin shifts and starts to turn and then stops. He’s not quite sure what to do here.

Arthur blows out a breath that sounds frustrated, but Merlin’s not sure if it’s with him or the situation. “Just put your back to me,” he instructs and while Merlin turns, shifting position so that he’s straddling the log, he hears Arthur moving closer behind him.

There’s a long moment of silence. “Your tunic, Merlin,” Arthur says softly. “You’ll need to take it off.”

“Right,” Merlin says again and he gets a hold of the hem of the tunic, bunches the fabric in his fists and eases it carefully over his head. “It’s your tunic though,” he says quietly, laying the white fabric across his thighs.

Arthur doesn’t say anything in response to that, but Merlin feels the first tentative touch high on his shoulder. Like the night Arthur did the same in the punishment yard, he’s exceedingly gentle when he traces the lash lines. His fingertips skim over each one, carefully spreading the salve. He works in silence, though Merlin can feel the occasional warm breath against his skin.

Merlin tries not to fidget or squirm too much under the soothing ministrations. Eventually though, it’s just too much and he blurts out, “Arthur, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Hush, Merlin,” Arthur admonishes, but not with anger or even real heat.

“But I need to—“

“I know,” Arthur interrupts. “There’s a lot we both need to say to each other. But, perhaps now isn’t the time.”

Merlin knows he shouldn’t push here, but he’s afraid that Arthur will keep putting it off and delaying this conversation, and then they’ll be back at Camelot and everything will be different and Arthur will never be this person he is right now. This caring, tender individual who’s looking after him with such devotion and propriety and, well…

Merlin’s made the mistake of putting a name to things too many times, so he won’t use certain words – even in his mind – but he knows what he feels.

“I think this is the time,” he tells Arthur. “What better time is there? We can’t ignore this forever, Arthur.”

Now Arthur’s starting to sound upset. “We can ignore it as long as I say we will, Merlin.”

“But—“

Arthur cuts him off again. “Look, I’m not sure that I’m even ready to talk about this. I don’t know… I’ve got so much to think about, Merlin.” He sighs and the gust of his exhale rustles through the hair at Merlin’s nape. “Do you have any idea all the things that are different now? All the things that have changed?” His fingers still a moment, just grazing Merlin’s shoulder blade. “I don’t even know if I should bring you back to Camelot.”

“What?” Merlin blurts out in a panic. “What do you mean?”

He hears the deep inhale that tells him Arthur is steeling him to say something neither of them will like. “You’re a sorcerer, Merlin. Sorcery is forbidden in Camelot.”

“Trust me, I know that, Arthur.” As if his whole life hasn’t been shaped by that very fact.

“What would you have me do, Merlin? Defy my own laws? Let you go completely unpunished and ignored, when I’ve had to sentence others to their death for the same crime?”

“No, Arthur,” Merlin protests. “No that’s not what I’m suggesting at all. That’s not what I want. But, you’re the king, Arthur. You can change those laws. Magic doesn’t have to be outlawed in Camelot.”

Arthur snorts noisily. “Oh yes, and I suppose I’ll just go lifting the ban on magic tomorrow and everything will fall into place and the people won’t protest and my council won’t object and everyone will openly welcome magic back into a city that’s fought against it for over twenty years.”

Merlin knows he should be contrite and grateful that Arthur’s even speaking to him, but the subject is one he’s quite passionate about, especially now that it’s so personal to them both. “Arthur, I know you don’t want to hear this, but magic isn’t all evil. It isn’t all used for dark purposes. It is only the person wielding it that makes it what it is. Magic can be good and pure and helpful and that’s what I use it for.”

“Perhaps, but, Merlin, you also killed people.”

“To save you, Arthur.” The words burst out of Merlin. “To save all of us. But, you need to know that to keep you alive I would do anything, Arthur. Anything” And that slips out much more raw and heartfelt than he means for it to.

“Merlin,” Arthur grumbles, but he doesn’t sound quite as firm as a moment ago. “I just don’t even know what to do with you.”

“Then why didn’t you just leave me in Essetir?” he asks plaintively. “Wulric knows what I am and he didn’t have any issue with giving me aid.”

“Don’t be stupid, Merlin,” Arthur snaps. “Of course I wasn’t going to leave you behind in Essetir. You’re still my manservant, or have you forgotten?” And there’s that proprietary, possessive tone that Merlin shouldn’t relish hearing. “But this isn’t just… It’s not just what to do when we get back to Camelot. It’s the years and years of lies,” – his voice cracks on the word – “between us. Every single moment we’ve ever spent, every interaction, everything we’ve ever done, I have to look back on differently and wonder.”

“There’s nothing to wonder, Arthur!”

“You can’t know that, Merlin!”

“But I do. I know that I use my magic for you, for good, for the good of Camelot for the good of the kingdom, to keep you safe. It’s just that simple.”

“It’s not though, Merlin,” Arthur argues, and he’s starting to sound angrier again, less regretful.

Though Merlin notices that despite how heated their words have gotten or how Arthur’s tone has varied, his touch has stayed the same soft, lingering press and sweep of fingertips over Merlin’s skin. His anger is belied by the tenderness of his actions.

“Arthur—“ Merlin begins again, but Arthur’s apparently done.

“Shut up, Merlin.” He doesn’t give Merlin even a moment to draw a breath. “Just, shut up now. Please.”

Because he sounds so utterly finished with talking, Merlin obeys. He sits silently while Arthur finishes applying the salve.

“There, done,” Arthur says a few minutes later, his hands coming away from Merlin’s skin slowly, like he doesn’t want to let go.

The loss of that warmth leaves Merlin cold despite the fire burning to embers only a few feet away. He picks up the tunic from his lap and starts to work his arms into it.

“No,” Arthur’s hand catches at his arm. “You shouldn’t cover up just yet. It’s best to leave the wounds uncovered for a while.”

Merlin nods, even as a chill judders his skin.

“Cold?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

He hears Arthur get to his feet and then he walks around to stand above Merlin and holds a hand down to him. “C’mon, let’s get you in the tent. You’ll be out of the breeze in there, and you can stretch out.”

Merlin takes the hand that’s offered to him and lets Arthur haul him up. The tent is large and roomy, much nicer than the small triangular shelters they normally travel with. He remarks on that as they don’t even have to duck getting inside.

“It’s a campaign tent,” Arthur explains. There’s a single candle burning inside, casting their dancing shadows on the cloth panel walls. The taper is set in a shallow bowl of sand in a corner, but otherwise the space is unornamented. “I’ve one like it, if you recall.”

Merlin does remember. It’s Camelot red and large enough for a table and chair and armor stands and even a sizeable cot. There are no cots in this one, but the ground is covered by several layered blankets atop what must be more of the straw-stuffed pallets.

“I’ll, uh, help you get settled,” Arthur offers awkwardly.

Merlin can’t really do much other than capitulate while Arthur helps him ready for bed. He kneels down to remove Merlin’s boots, and removes his own, setting both pairs up near the flap. He supports Merlin’s arms as he lowers himself slowly to the makeshift bed. It’s comfortable, despite the cold ground beneath and there’s even a pillow for each of them. Merlin shifts on his side carefully, trying to avoid rubbing any of his well-slicked back into the blankets. He doesn’t want to undo all of Arthur’s hard work.

To Merlin’s surprise, Arthur ties the tent flaps closed, shrugs out of his own tunic and then takes a similar position on the empty space next to him, lying prone. He’d been expecting Arthur to go back outside; maybe sleep in the wagon. It would be the stubborn – and very Arthur - thing to do.

Arthur sits up after a moment, and reaches down to the area around their feet. “There’s a blanket here, if you need it later.” He pulls one up over Merlin’s legs, tucking it into place around his hips and then drags a second one halfway up his torso.  When he settles back down it’s on his side so that he and Merlin are lying face-to-face.

“Comfortable?” Arthur asks. He’s practically whispering, but they’re close enough that Merlin can hear him clearly.

“Yeah.” Merlin nods.

“Do you need any more of that tonic?” Arthur frowns. “I should’ve thought to ask sooner. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I mean, I’m fine. I think I’ve had enough of that for now. Makes me sleepy.”

The very corners of Arthur’s mouth crook a little bit upward. “That’s kind of the point, Merlin. It’s to help you sleep through the worst of the pain and to help your healing. I think that salve is helpful too, as your cuts don’t look nearly as bad as I thought they might.” He wrinkles his nose. “Though now the tent stinks of the stuff.”

This opens an opportunity for Merlin, and despite Arthur making it clear he doesn’t want to talk on it any further tonight, Merlin can’t pass up this chance.

“Um, I think they are better than they should be. I’ve been trying to heal them, using magic. Ever since that first night on the stocks.”

“Oh,” Arthur rolls his shoulders back, putting just a bit more space between them.

Unthinking, Merlin reaches out to catch at one of Arthur’s hands, taking hold of his fingers and slipping his own fingers into the space between thumb and palm.

Arthur frowns, but it doesn’t seem to be about Merlin holding his hand. “But if you can do that, why aren’t you fully healed?”

“Erm, because I’m still not quite sure how to do it.” Merlin admits sheepishly.

Arthur’s brows dip inward. “I don’t understand.”

“Healing magic is complicated.” He waits to be told to stop talking, but Arthur just continues his curious staring. “You see, sometimes I can heal other people with my magic, though it isn’t always easy, depending on why they need it, and how far gone they are. It’s especially difficult if there’s other magic or poison involved. It’s kind of like giving my, um, own life I guess, to someone else.” He not sure he’s explaining it well, but Arthur is listening quietly, which is a good sign.

“I can only give them as much as I have the strength to manage. I draw on the magic inside of me and that drains me. So when I try to heal myself, it’s more challenging because I’m feeding on my own strength while trying to give myself strength at the same time.” He holds out his unoccupied hand and mimes a circle in the air.

He shrugs the shoulder that’s not pressed into the blankets. “It’s rather confusing. I only got it to work a few times, and that’s when I was focusing on something else. Kind of letting my mind dwell on certain thoughts.”

“What kind of thoughts?”

Damn. Merlin didn’t get into specifics for a very good reason. He answers as vaguely as he can. “Um, things that make me happy. Quite often it was imagining you rescuing me.” He smiles, and doesn’t add that those scenarios often led to Merlin expressing his gratitude in rather… creative ways.

Oddly, Arthur also smiles at that, like he can read Merlin’s mind.  Which is a very scary thought.

“What?” Merlin asks, unnerved by that strange grin.

“Oh, nothing really,” Arthur replies, and if Merlin’s not mistaken – he could be, it is dim in the tent –there’s a bit of a patchy blush showing on Arthur’s cheeks. He chuffs out a slightly embarrassed laugh. “Just, that I laid awake both of those nights thinking very similar thoughts. Dashing rescues and all that.”

Merlin really doesn’t think Arthur’s thought were that similar. There’s no way Arthur’s imagination went the same direction that Merlin’s did. Though, he can’t admit that so he just grins. “A daring rescue would’ve probably been less dramatic that what really happened, but much more entertaining.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I can’t think of anything that would be more dramatic than what really happened.” The amusement slowly falls away from his face and Merlin knows he’s remembering everything that occurred in the yard.

“There are probably a hundred different conversations we’ll need to have about all the times you’ve used magic around me. Things I’m going to need answers to. And I’m going to trust that you’ll tell me the truth.”

It’s not a question, but Merlin nods anyway.

“And while I really don’t want to start those conversations now, so late tonight, there is one thing I do have to ask.” Arthur’s whole body goes still, and Merlin can feel the tension suddenly holding his muscles taut. He already knows what Arthur is going to ask him.

“If you can heal people, why did you not—“ he stops himself, as if he’s afraid of asking the question. Or getting the answer.

“Heal your father?” Merlin finishes for him.

Arthur nods. “Why did you bring in that old sorcerer? Why…” He trails off, eyes going so wide there’s white showing all around cobalt irises. “The old man was you!”

Merlin nods. “I used an aging spell, so that I could try to heal him without having to give up my secret.”

“I knew there was something familiar about him. Around the eyes. But, I thought… he. I mean, you… I don’t understand. If you can heal people, why did he die?” Conflicting expressions are crossing Arthur’s face so fast it’s hard to figure out what each might mean.

“I blame myself. And I’m so sorry I couldn’t save him for you.”

“You mean you let him die?” For the first time, Arthur starts to pull his hand away from where he’s let their fingers stay entwined between their bodies.

“What? No! Of course not! You must believe me.”

“Then why do you blame yourself?”

Merlin inhales deeply and lets the breath out slowly. This isn’t going to be easy for Arthur to hear. “Because there was something we didn’t discover until later. Agravaine had placed an enchanted pendant around your father’s neck. I’m assuming it came from Morgana. Its purpose was to counteract any healing, and use that energy to kill him faster.” He squeezes tight to Arthur’s fingers, imploring him to understand. “I wanted to save him for you, Arthur. And I tried, so very hard. I… we were betrayed and I’m sorry.”

Arthur is silent a very long while, and he seems to be staring past Merlin, unfocused on anything. Still, he keeps his hold on Merlin’s hand and doesn’t move away from, which has to be a good sign, right? Merlin certainly hopes so.

“Look,” Merlin says softly, trying a different tack than one he’d used outside on the log. “I know that things have changed between us and will change further. And I understand that you have a lot of decisions ahead of you regarding what to do with me and about magic, but Arthur, just, right now, can you – I need you to help me talk about this, just a little bit more.” He rubs his thumb against Arthur’s knuckles, encouraged when Arthur still doesn’t pull away.

“I need you to know that I never wanted to keep this from you. I’ve just never wanted to put you in a position where you would have to lie for me, or break your oaths to keep my secret. That’s the only reason I didn’t tell you.”

Arthur’s quiet, so Merlin presses on. “Before, when Uther was still alive, imagine what would’ve happened if I was discovered and he found out that you’d known about me.”

Arthur makes a conciliatory noise. “That was my father, Merlin. What about me? What about now? Do you truly believe that I’d carry out having you put to death?”

Merlin gives that reluctant, one-shoulder shrug again. “I don’t… I didn’t know, Arthur.” He sighs. “I don’t like to think that you could’ve gone through with it. But I didn’t want you to have to make that choice.”

But Arthur seems to be fixed on that point. “So you think that I could easily just have you killed?

“I didn’t say that,” Merlin argues, but Arthur talks over him.

“You think I could just throw away the last dozen years and everything we’ve been through? You think I’d do that?” One brow arches up. His grip on Merlin’s hand starts to pull away.

Merlin closes his eyes and shakes his head just slightly. “No, I never really thought that, Arthur. But you have to understand that this is a secret I’ve kept practically my whole life.” He clings to Arthur’s hand, refusing to let him go. “I was born with magic and have always lived in a place where it wasn’t welcome and with people who feared and reviled it. My mother did her best to protect me growing up. But when I got older, it became so hard for her. That’s why she sent me to Camelot. She thought maybe I could finally find a place to belong and fit in. A place where my magic wouldn’t set me apart so much, or at least I could hide it easier amongst so many people.”

Arthur snorts, like he can’t help the noise. The smile is fighting at his mouth again. “Your mother thought that sending you to a city where the king ruling over it was absolutely obsessed with eradicating all magic would keep you safe?”

Merlin has to huff out a small laugh as well. “Well, I mean, she sent me to Gaius. She knew that was the right move and that he would keep an eye on me.”

“Hrmm. I suppose I can see that.” Arthur says. “So Gaius knows, of course?”

“Yes.”

“Does anyone else?”

Merlin shakes his head. “In Camelot? No one. Though, Lancelot did, before… Well, before he died.”

“And your mother, of course.” He sighs. “Your friend, Will. He knew. He wasn’t the one who summoned that wind devil.”

“No, you’re right, that was me. Will was just protecting me.”

The sigh is louder this time, heavier. “I suppose if my reaction to that was any indication as to how I’d feel about finding out about your magic, I can understand your reluctance to tell me.”

“Arthur,” Merlin admonishes, because that was a very long time ago. “We’ve come a very long way since then.”

Arthur shakes his head sadly. “Not far enough, it seems.”

“Far enough that we can get past this,” Merlin says with quiet surety.

“You really think so?” He sounds like he wants to believe that.

“Yes, I really do. The truth doesn’t really change anything between us, does it?”

“Yes, it does. It changes everything, Merlin.” Arthur says it fiercely, almost vehemently. His fingers clench tightly around Merlin’s. “For years I’ve treated you like nothing more than a bumbling servant and yet you’re this powerful sorcerer. I don’t know how to reconcile that. And how am I to treat you now?”

Merlin pets at Arthur’s wrist, soothing. “Arthur, c’mon. I’m still the same person you’ve always known. Plus, I’ve not been that bumbling servant in a very long time.”

“Unless I needed you to be,” Arthur admits, quietly and with a touch of awe, like he’s coming to the realization just now.

Merlin can’t deny that. “Of course. I’ll always be what you need.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees ardently. “You certainly are. You always have been.”

“Loyal servant,” Merlin suggests. “Friend when you need that. Adversary when you need that too.”

“Nuisance when I need a distraction,” Arthur adds wryly.

“Punching bag when necessary.” Merlin grins when he says it, but Arthur makes a soft, wounded noise.

“Sorry. I really am… just, sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s why I’m here and why I’ll always be here.” He goes silent a moment, thinking of all the other roles he plays in Arthur’s life. “Travel companion. General dogsbody. Maid service, although I’ve never been too good at that.”

“Advisor,” Arthur chimes in, not at all flip. He lifts his free hand and reaches across the small span between them to touch Merlin’s cheek. His eyes are wide and guileless. “Conscience. A mirror when I need one, to see myself as you see me.” His voice drops so low that Merlin can hardly hear it. “The only person I can stand to be around sometimes. A daily reminder of why I should be a better person.”

“Anything you need me to be,” Merlin repeats breathlessly.

There’s a lingering silence that feels heavy with anticipation. “And,” Arthur starts, falters, and then he swallows audibly and starts again. “And what if I need you to be more?”

“More?” Merlin’s voice goes high on the word. Arthur cannot mean what Merlin wants him to. Not after all this.

But the fingers just trailing along Merlin’s jawline slide further back, curving possessively around his cheek and Arthur’s thumb swipes boldly across Merlin’s lower lip.

“More,” Arthur says, low and fervent.

Merlin swallows hard, and then licks his lips. The tip of his tongue catches the edge of Arthur’s thumb for just a moment. “I can be more.” He closes his eyes tight a moment and when he opens them he says, “I want to be more.”

Arthur’s eyes are dark and wide, and they’re all that Merlin can see as Arthur moves slowly towards him, until lips press against his own and he has to squeeze his eyes shut. The kiss is tentative at first, just a light touch and only their lips. Then Merlin whimpers and Arthur’s lips part and it gets wet and hot as a tongue teases at Merlin’s lower lip, and he lets it slip inside.

They kiss until they’re both breathless with it, gasping against each other’s mouths.

“Wha’?” Merlin mutters, when Arthur starts to pull back.

“C’mere,” Arthur urges, rolling on to his back and pulling Merlin on top of him. “I keep wanting to roll you over and ravage you,” he admits, voice a throaty growl. “We need to be careful of your back,” he explains, then threads both hands through Merlin’s hair and drags him down into another messy, devastating kiss.

The position makes it very clear that they’re both quite affected by the kissing. Merlin can feel Arthur’s hard length pressing into his hip through both layers of their trousers. His own cock is equally firm and growing thicker at the friction created between their bodies.

Merlin takes advantage of Arthur’s hold on him to give his hands the chance to explore Arthur’s body. He knows it so well already, that learning which touches make him shiver, and finding the spots that he shies away from having tickled, and mapping those delicate areas that cause him to growl and buck his hips, feels like a natural progression of knowing Arthur better than anyone.

For a moment or two it seems strange that these things are new to him.

That thought gives him pause.

Merlin braces his hands down on Arthur’s chest and pushes up, putting a little distance between them. “Arthur, wait,” he says.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, blinking in confusion. “What’s wrong?” His lips are puffy and red, his pupils huge and dark, his hair disheveled and his breath is coming in a light pant.

Merlin shakes his head. He needs to focus, and Arthur – looking debauched as he does – makes it difficult to think.

“Nothing’s _wrong_. It’s just, I need to know that this,”–he lifts a hand momentarily off of Arthur’s pectoral to gesture between the two of them–“isn’t just because of everything that’s gone on these past few days. You have to admit things have been very emotional and, I just need to know… that that’s not all this is.”

“Merlin, it’s not,” Arthur replies fervently. “I can assure you.”

"Even with the magic?" Merlin has to ask.

Arthur pauses, thoughtfully. "Maybe...the magic might make it better, even."

Merlin’s mouth falls slack, incredulous.

"You're not my servant,” Arthur says. “I always knew you weren't just that, but now it seems you've never really been that at all. And that...makes this feel better, even if I'm still nervous about the magic itself."

It’s more than Merlin could’ve ever hoped for. Still, he hesitates. “But, are you sure that I’m what you really want?”

Arthur rolls his hips up into Merlin’s and Merlin stutters out a gasp. “Does that feel like I know what I want?” Arthur asks.

Merlin bites at his lip, it feels so good, but he can’t let this go. “Yessss,” he says on a breathy exhale. He swallows, trying to regain control. “But is it… Is this new?” he can’t quite articulate what’s worrying him, but Arthur seems to understand.

“Well, yes and no. The way I feel certainly isn’t new, but… letting myself act on it certainly is. Look, does it help if I tell you that on our last hunting trip, the one that was just the two of us, a couple of months back, when we stopped by that river to make camp, I wanted nothing more than to bend you over those rocks and take you then and there?”

Merlin feels his face go crimson with heat. “Arthur,” he says, scandalized. Then the memory of that day comes back to him and he sits back further, inadvertently rocking his rear against the firm bulge of Arthur’s cock.

Arthur groans beneath him, heartfelt and deep. The sound vibrates through Merlin’s palms that are still splayed over his chest.

“Wait a minute!” Merlin blurts. “You pushed me in the stream that day! I was soaked from head to toe and had to ride home the next morning in wet boots!”

Having the good grace to look at least a bit sheepish, Arthur laughs. “Well, I was a bit shocked myself, Merlin. I’d finally realized that I wanted nothing more than to bed my lazy, dodgy, scruffy-looking manservant. You’ll have to forgive me for not reacting in the best manner.”

He grins winsomely. It’s a look Merlin’s seen him flash plenty of times at ladies of the court or rulers’ daughters when he wants to charm them or gain their affections. It’s ridiculously handsome and appealing and Merlin is helpless to it.

“So, satisfied?” Arthur asks.

Merlin nods. He is. And he hasn’t been mistaken about some of the things he’s thought were only his imagination these last few weeks. He feels slightly vindicated. Not to mention ridiculously thrilled.

“And what about you?” Arthur wonders. “How am I to know this is something that you really want.” He frowns suddenly, like the thought has only just occurred to him. “How do I know this isn’t just you giving me what I want so that I forgive you?”

It’s a serious question, but Merlin can’t help rolling his eyes. “Arthur, if you’ve not noticed my affection for you… No, that’s not the right word… My attraction.” He bites at his lip, suddenly discomfited. “You must know that I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember. If you don’t know that I—“

“I do,” Arthur interrupts, his face as serious as Merlin’s ever seen it, eyes so wide and so filled with things that Merlin might actually risk putting a name to now. “I do, and I love…” His lips press together. “I do,” he concludes firmly.

Merlin’s not disappointed that he can’t quite get the words out, because Arthur’s never really been good with words. Actions on the other hand...

Arthur surges up then, lifting his torso with the strength of his well-muscled stomach. He pushes one hand deep into the hair at Merlin’s nape and gets the other one low on Merlin’s back, below the lash marks, and curves it around his rear, urging Merlin down against him while he presses his hips up. He pulls Merlin’s face to his, biting at his lips, plunging his tongue in Merlin’s mouth. All that Merlin can do is hold tighter to him, grip his shoulders and press his thumbs up into Arthur’s clavicles while they rock against each other.

“Trousers,” Arthur says into his jaw, where he’s biting and sucking at the tender skin below Merlin’s ear, the word nearly unintelligible. But Merlin’s always been good at interpreting Arthur with his mouth full (though usually it’s with food and not Merlin’s neck).

Merlin peels his fingers from Arthur’s skin and works his hands between them, fumbling at his own laces. Getting them off entirely means he has to break away from the kissing, but as it gives Arthur the chance to shimmy out of his own breeches, Merlin supposes it’s a necessary evil.

When both of them are naked, Arthur once again lays back into the blankets, and he urges Merlin to follow him down, tugging on his arms. “Please,” he whines, “I need to feel all of you.”

Put like that, how can Merlin resist? He eases his body back down, rolling it slowly, inch by inch, bringing them skin-to-skin in teasing increments. The first press of their cocks together is magic, and when their bellies press together and then their chests, Merlin gasps out feverishly.

Arthur kisses him, messy and desperate, and then trails his lips and nipping teeth over Merlin’s chin and his jawline. Merlin arches up, allowing him access to his collarbones, and the long line of his bared throat. He shudders as Arthur traces that taut line with his tongue. Arthur’s hands skim down Merlin’s ribs to his waist, and he cups his hands on either side possessively, digging his thumbs just below Merlin’s hipbones. He holds tight and rocks up into him again.

Merlin has to get his hand between them. He needs to touch Arthur’s cock, to get a hand around him and learn that final part of him. He arches his spine further, ignoring Arthur’s whine at the space that puts between them, and wriggles his hand between their tightly pressed hips. Arthur’s cock is just like the rest of him; firm and well-formed. Merlin’s gives it a slow stroke, feeling the length and girth captured in his tightly wrapped fingers and the give of foreskin making his strokes frictionless. He thumbs over the hot, plummy head, catching wetness that he rubs into the flat of the top.

Arthur throws his head back into the blankets and screws his eyes shut. He holds so tight to Merlin’s hips, Merlin knows there will be marks left behind. That thought sends a pulse of heat through his whole body. To be marked by Arthur, possessed by him, is a long-held fantasy. He can hardly believe it’s coming true.

Shifting his hips, Merlin rubs his own cock down into Arthur’s belly while he continues to stroke and caress Arthur’s. He lines them up together and manages to wrap his hand around both of them. The sensation of their cocks sliding together in the grip of his fist is unreal. He and Arthur groan in unison.

With the fingers of one hand still gripping Merlin’s hip, Arthur wraps the other one around both their tightly held cocks and Merlin’s fingers alike. He matches the slow rhythm of Merlin’s strokes and then encourages him to speed faster and squeeze just a little harder. Soon Merlin is bucking into their joined hands arhythmically.

“Arthur,” Merlin keens.

Merlin comes before Arthur, loudly groaning his release as it splashes hot over their joined hands and Arthur’s flat belly.  His back bows with the intensity of it, and his whole body shudders with aftershocks as Arthur continues pulling at his own cock, with Merlin’s fingers still caught in his, and his spent cock still held tight.

A heartbeat later Arthur’s whole body goes taut beneath him, and with a noiseless gasp his release spatters against Merlin’s wrist and fingers.  Arthur slumps back into the blankets, eyes rolling back and mouth going slack.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks. “You okay?”

A goofy smile forms on Arthur’s mouth, and though he’s a bit slow to focus, he looks up at Merlin and winks. Arthur hooks his messy fingers in Merlin’s and gently peels their hands away from sensitive and slackening flesh.

Panting and spent, Merlin collapses on top of Arthur. Damp warmth squishes between their bellies, but Merlin ignores it. Arthur doesn’t seem to care either; his rapidly moving rib cage rocks Merlin up and down with each deep inhale and breathy exhale.

“Should I move?” Merlin asks several minutes later, though he’s loathe to move from his spot. “Am I too heavy?” Beneath him, Arthur’s breathing is starting to even out.

Arthur blows out a noisy laugh with his next exhale. “Don’t be silly. You’re not going anywhere.” His arms come up around Merlin, unthinking, wrapping tight around the middle of his back.

It takes them both a moment to realize that there’s something incongruous about this. Arthur’s arms go still, then begin to loosen at the same time that Merlin lifts his head.

“There’s no pain,” Merlin mutters, puzzled.

“Uh, Merlin,” Arthur begins, and he presses a palm tentatively against Merlin’s skin then lightly sweeps it up the whole length of his back. “They’re gone.” He sits up suddenly, throwing Merlin off of him into an ungainly sprawl.

“Hey!” Merlin protests. He’d been rather comfortable.

“No, you don’t understand.” Arthur takes him by the shoulders and rolls him forcibly onto his belly.

If Merlin hadn’t just come, well… as it is, his cock stirs at the rough handling.

“The lash marks, they’re almost fully healed! Most are little more than light scars,” Arthur exclaims. He moves to straddle Merlin’s hips, and he methodically runs his fingers all over Merlin’s back, from his nape to the base of his spine. “You healed yourself while we were…” he coughs.

Merlin cradles his head on his crossed arms. Arthur’s hands are gentle and exploratory, and he suspects that whatever energy he must’ve borrowed from Arthur for the magic to do its work is going to have other interesting effects on his refractory period.  From the firming press against his rear, it might be having the same effect on Arthur, as well.

“I think we generated the kind of energy my magic needed,” he tells Arthur, slurring a bit, like he’s drunk on satiation.

Arthur slides his hardening cock between Merlin’s cheeks. “I’d say,” he breathes out, sounding awed. He folds himself over the length of Merlin’s back and lips at Merlin’s neck. “Rather unexpected side effect, I take it?”

Merlin nods, but is too busy writhing at the delicious press of Arthur’s heat covering him, and the teeth teasing his ear. “Where,” he manages to pant out when Arthur gets a hand beneath Merlin’s hips and circles his cock with strong fingers, “is that salve?”

Arthur’s groan reverberates through both of their bodies. “Gods, really?”

Merlin nods into his arms. “Oh, yes,” he forces the words out. “Please.” The latter is practically a whine.

“Uhm,” Arthur’s voice is thick and slow. “It’s outside, I think? By the fire.”

“Fetch it?” Merlin asks.

Arthur makes a reluctant noise as he peels himself up off of Merlin. “Don’t think this mean I’ll be doing all the fetching from now on.” He slaps Merlin’s flank, but it’s playful, and it makes Merlin squirm. “Don’t move.”

“Don’t plan to.”

There’s a cool gust of air when Arthur parts the tent flaps to step outside.

A few minutes pass. Merlin wonders if Arthur can’t find the jar in the dark. Perhaps the fire has burned down to ashes. He should’ve offered a light.

Finally he feels another night breeze snake into the room when Arthur returns, tickling up his spine, but when nothing follows that – Arthur doesn’t say anything or rejoin him on the blankets – Merlin looks back over his shoulder. In the dim candlelight Arthur’s naked body looks especially ruddy. He’s holding the jar in both hands strategically over his flagging cock.

“Arthur?”

“Uh, Gwaine was out there.” Arthur makes a vague scooping gesture with his hand. “Hungry, I guess. He was uh, ladling out a bowl of stew.”

Merlin bites at both of his lips. Oh gods. And he saw Arthur slipping out of their tent, naked, cock hard, come still drying on his belly… and fetching the jar of salve. Gwaine’s never going to let them live this down.

Arthur groans and collapses into a heap, going down to his knees and then draping himself over Merlin’s back again. His skin’s a bit cool and it feels nice pressed all along the lines of Merlin’s over-warm body.

“Did he get a very good look?” Merlin asks, hoping there’s some salvaging this.

“Oh, I’d say he did.” Arthur shifts, setting the salve down near Merlin’s armpit and burying his face against Merlin’s nape. “I didn’t exactly notice him at first. Or the fact that he’d built the fire up. Plenty of light to see by.”

Merlin’s trying, he really is, but he can’t quite hold in the chortle that’s slipping out between his tightly pressed lips.

“The only saving grace is that I think he was rather impressed,” Arthur mutters into the point of Merlin’s shoulder. He presses his teeth against the curve of it, and Merlin can feel him trying to hold in his own laughter.

Merlin is capable of no such thing. A snort escapes him, and then a full blown laugh. “I’m sorry,” he sputters into the backs of his arms. “It’s just… of all the things we’re coming away from this whole…” He casts about for the right word to encompass everything they’ve been through. He finally settles on, “Adventure. Gwaine knowing that you’re buggering your manservant is probably the worst of it all.”

Arthur leaves off sucking a messy mark into Merlin’s shoulder, apparently his solution to containing his own laughter. “How is that the worst thing?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Well,” Merlin begins, cataloguing the events of the past few days on the fingers of one hand. He holds his hand up, fingers splayed, and folds one down for each accomplishment. “We ended up getting that peace treaty.” His pointer finger folds down. “We’ve made a valuable ally for Camelot.” The middle finger follows. “We unexpectedly subverted a plot of Morgana’s.” A ring finger curls down. “I’ll be returning to Camelot with you with my magic exposed, and that can only mean things will change for the better.” He folds down his pinky and waits for some kind of comment on that from Arthur.

But all that Arthur says is, “And the last thing?”

Merlin wraps his thumb around his folded fingers and at the same time, shifts his hips suggestively under Arthur’s groin. “This,” he says pointedly. “I think this is the best of all.”

Arthur, body once again fully invested in the proceedings, takes hold of Merlin’s hips and thrusts into the slick space between his thighs. “Oh, yes,” Arthur groans. “I’m forced to concur,” he mumbles, obviously distracted now.

“So, Gwaine. The worst of it all… Cuz you know he’ll never let this go.” Merlin’s starting to lose his hold on the point.

“Gwaine?” Arthur repeats, and it’s clear that his embarrassment is long forgotten in favor of renewed passion. “Worst, right,” he manages.

Merlin can’t blame him. Every push of Arthur’s hips drives Merlin’s cock into the blankets. “The salve,” he reminds Arthur a little desperately. “Use it, please.”

Arthur goes still. “You’re sure?”

Merlin presses his forehead into his arms and nods. “Yes. Please, Arthur.” He makes Arthur’s name a plea.

Arthur’s head drops to the center of Merlin’s back. “Merlin,” he keens. “You have no idea… You look so… God.” He swallows audibly. “I’ll be careful, I promise. And if it hurts, you must tell me. Promise me that.” He’s babbling a little, but sounds so desperately concerned and turned on.

Merlin nods. “Yes,” he husks out. “Promise.” His own verbal skills are rapidly becoming non-existent. Especially when Arthur gets a salve-slick finger pressed achingly slowly inside.

“More,” Merlin urges. There’s no pain. His whole body is pliant and eager for more and Arthur gets two fingers worked into him easily. Of course, then Arthur just teases him like that for far, far too long. His fingers rub over a spot that makes Merlin practically howl, and though the angle is difficult, Merlin manages to get an arm back to grapple at Arthur’s hips, urging him on.

He’s reduced to begging. “Please, Arthur. Please… I need to feel you. Arthur, please… now.”

It’s that final ‘please’ that finally does it. The fingers slide out gradually, only to be replaced by something bigger and hotter that breaches him so very slowly.

Too slowly. Merlin doesn’t need gentle right now. He rocks back onto Arthur’s length wantonly.

“Merlin!” Arthur cries out as his hips come flush against Merlin’s arse. His forehead falls between Merlin’s shoulder blades again. “Oh god, Merlin.” He gives a tentative thrust that leaves them both gasping.

“Yes,” Merlin urges. “More, Arthur.”

Arthur obeys, rocking his hips in a slow, but steadily increasing tempo. Merlin braces his elbows against the ground and rolls his hips back in a perfect counterpoint to each thrust. It’s mind-blowing.

Arthur’s still got his head pressed hard against Merlin’s back, but he gets his hands up around Merlin’s shoulders, cupping them, and uses that leverage to pull his snapping hips tighter and push his cock deeper.

A low, ululating cry issues from Merlin’s lips as Arthur’s slapping hips grind Merlin’s cock into the blankets. He’s so close, just on the verge of coming. Shifting to take all of Arthur’s weight on one side, Merlin works a hand down between his body and the blankets. He barely gets his fingers in a loose circle around his own cock when Arthur bites at his nape, and then something flares white behind his eyes, and he comes so hard everything goes hazy around him and he collapses weakly.

There’s an odd echo in his ears and it takes Merlin a moment to realize that it’s Arthur, noisy this time where he’d been silent before, shouting as he spends himself inside Merlin’s body with a few hard snaps of his hips. “Merlin,” Arthur pants out with each final jerk and twitch. “Merlin… Merlin…”

Flattened into the ground with the whole of Arthur’s boneless weight holding him there, Merlin feels spent and giddy and utterly worn out.  Arthur’s breath is like a forge bellows against the back of his neck and Arthur’s hands are running soothingly up and down Merlin’s sides and flanks.

“Merlin,” Arthur mumbles again. “God, Merlin, that was…” He sounds rather awed.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees dreamily. “It really was.”

Arthur pushes himself up and off of Merlin, despite Merlin’s noises of protest. “We need to get some rest, Merlin.”

Merlin sticks out his tongue.

Arthur narrowly misses snatching it with his fingers after he rolls off of Merlin and back to his side in their make-shift bed. He uses his discarded tunic to wipe them both roughly clean and then manhandles Merlin until he’s got him positioned just as he wants him for sleep.

Merlin’s back is curved into Arthur’s chest, and Arthur’s knees curl into Merlin’s thighs. Arthur slings a possessive arm over his chest and pulls him even closer. Merlin never wants him to let go.

“It’s a long ride back to Camelot tomorrow,” Arthur says quietly, voice sounding worn and sluggish. “And we’re going to need every moment of that time to talk over all the things we didn’t talk about tonight. Including what we should do about Morgana. And how to deal with your magic. And of course, where we can find that gold mine…”

Merlin laughs, soft but genuine and heartfelt, like he’s not had the occasion to laugh in what feels like an age and a half. Arthur’s responding low chortle is a gust of warm breath into Merlin’s hair. His arms tighten around Merlin, and Merlin can only relax into that comforting, loving embrace.

This time, they’re both well and truly spent. Whatever magic invigorated them the first time around doesn’t seem to have been at play this second time (though, since Merlin’s already healed, that only makes sense). So it’s not long before they’re both yawning, and curling up even closer together.

The last thing Merlin hears before sleep claims him is Arthur’s muzzy, already half-dozing, “G’night… love you. You’re riding in the wagon with Gwaine t’morrow.”

And for the first time in days, weeks even – ever since that damned invitation first arrived – Merlin falls asleep safe and secure and sure of the knowledge of Camelot’s prosperous future.


End file.
